Whumptober 2018 - The Musketeers
by ficklescribbler
Summary: Chapter 18 - Stranded/Harsh Weather: "Above them, the wind raged over the remaining few roof tiles, blowing through the clogged chimney to thrust up soot, making Porthos cough." - Short hurt/comfort stories for the "Whumptober" prompts on Tumblr.
1. Stabbed

_I decided to take on these "Whumptober" prompts as a writing challenge. Let's see if I'll manage 31 prompts in 31 days!_

* * *

 **I. Stabbed.**

The feel of the blade is nothing like he'd expect.

It is cold and hard and foreign within his flesh, an exceedingly uncomfortable pressure more than anything else. A major inconvenience, really. He's fine. Considering, it's nothing as bad as he'd have expected.

That is, until he begins to feel an odd pressure mounting in his head, as if two hands are pressing from both sides with steadily increasing force, and a heavy weight begins to descend upon his chest, gradually slowing his heart's wild beats. It is strange, but not painful; he's being sucked into a void that's whirling around the dagger buried hilt-deep, while a black fog begins to invade his vision from the edges, solidifying quickly and pushing him down. He's falling, and it is peaceful -

"d'Artagnan!"

A slap jerks him awake and he opens his eyes with a gasp.

Hurried hands are patting him down, searching for injuries. Finding none, _other than the obvious_ , they stop. A heat is beginning to gather on his skin around the blade; he reaches a hand to explore it, mindless, like a curious child, but something stops him abruptly and pushes his hand back down. Finally, he looks up.

"Lie still."

"Athos?"

Breathy and confused, he tries to focus.

"Yes. Stay still." The low, clipped tone is more grounding than the hand on his other shoulder. A whimper escapes him nevertheless, as if coming from someone else. Athos is doing things beside him, around him, upon him, but he's not following - until he speaks again, with a note of urgency this time.

"I am going to pull this out, and I am going to press down on the wound, _hard_. It is going to hurt, but you won't bleed to death. Understood?"

" _Hm-_ "

"d'Artagnan, _do_ you understand?" The urgency is compounded with worry, and though he certainly does _not_ understand, d'Artagnan nods. The fingers on his shoulder contract briefly before disappearing and that trusted voice orders, "Brace yourself." But he's given no time before the material within him shifts and a cry rips free from his throat – a cry like never before - but the pain is _so_ sharp, _so sharp_ -

"Hang on now."

It is _moving._ It is _cutting,_ _sliding slick through muscle and sinew and his own flesh tightening around the blade, reluctant to let go. His heart is roaring like a wild drum beating to senseless bloodlust and there's something primal, violent and bloody and almost animal-like -_

"It's done. It's done," Athos breathes over him, half-relieved, half-soothing. The Gascon's head lolls to the side as his eyes fall close.

 _The pressure is still there._

As if in a dream he feels himself being moved, dragged until he's propped on something hard, easing the ache in his back and neck. Constant movement around him, assuring, calm and secure; the heat and the orange tint of a fire, and that presence near him, _trusted_. Time is lost until he's being roused again.

Athos's hand on his cheek is kind, patting gently to bring him around. d'Artagnan opens his eyes and suddenly, like magic, everything is clear again, back in focus.

"There you are. Sit tight. I need to take care of that wound."

"How'b-" he winces, "how bad is it?"

"How badly does it hurt?"

"...What does that have to do with it?" he mumbles.

"Not being Aramis, that is how you and I can gauge how bad a wound is," Athos muses. It sounds like he's being completely serious. d'Artagnan frowns, looking at him.

In the faint glimmer from the fire, there is a twitch on Athos's lips as he studiously keeps his head down, threading the needle.

Puzzlement lasts for a moment, and d'Artagnan lowers his head back, and laughs.


	2. Bloody Hands

_Failure, from day two! In my defence, it's the start of the term so I went to campus yesterday, met with my advisor and caught up with colleagues, getting the latest in the academia after a long summer. No TA-ship for me anymore, so I can focus on my dissertation, but obviously that doesn't come with more time for fanfic, alas. I'll do my best to keep up. Many thanks to those of you who left reviews – the supported is much appreciated. Here is the second story, 'inspired' by the prompt 'bloody hands'. It may be edited poorly, my apologies in advance._

* * *

Porthos, unlike the majority of the men in his regiment, admired the King's Musketeers.

Not necessarily secretly, but not necessarily overtly either, he admired the newly-formed regiment of the 'most elite soldiers in France' - the accolade itself a prime reason for the mocking they received from the rest of the men. Ever since they'd arrived at the camp two weeks ago, they'd been at the receiving end of many a crude remark, many a cruel joke - though never openly or within their earshot. But going by the hostile glances exchanged whenever a Musketeer passed by an infantryman - that is, the hostile glance thrown by the infantryman returned guardedly, haughtily, indignantly or pompously, as, again, interpreted to be so by the said infantryman, none of those feelings were lost on the Musketeers.

 _Toy soldiers,_ the men nicknamed them. Lookin' all pretty in their shiny uniforms and plumed hats; such _gentlemen_ , the lot of them. They looked right at home in the glittery halls and the manicured gardens of the Louvre, basking in the reflected light of the king and the queen. And sure, Parisians loved seeing them with their fancy blue cloaks and ornate swords at their belts as they accompanied the royals on parade, but that was exactly it: they belonged to Paris, to the capital of France, and to the world of the king and his place. They had no place on the battlefield. Within the mud and dust and chaos of the camp, they were too prim, too _proper_ , clean and polished, like china dolls in a store window.

Some felt sorry for them. _Poor sods_ , Maurice, their cook, lamented one day; _come the day of fightin', they goin' t'be butchered like a herd of sheep._

Porthos, despite himself, worried -indeed, worried- that Maurice was right.

Campaigning, unbeknownst to be many, consisted, to a great extent, of marching and waiting. Many a soldier went on campaign only to return without ever seeing the battlefield, and of those who did, most never returned. So far, Porthos had been lucky enough to be one of the few in-between; he had marched and waited and fought, and lived to tell his stories. But he was young, and he was hungry for life, and he had a strange feeling at the pit of his belly that, here in the army, he was only getting started.

For on these endlessly long, hot days, as they waited for weeks on end for orders to arrive or for stalemates to end, bored and restless, the men would spontaneously get in line to challenge Porthos to a brawl. It had become a game, one that Porthos enjoyed immensely: rarely did a man came along that could best him in a neat hand-to-hand, and it made for good entertainment, a good distraction for everyone. Sometimes even their lieutenant and captain would join the bets. Porthos loved winning, he loved his share from the bets, and he loved the praise. Oh, he _loved_ the praise.

He loved the good things in life, those he'd grown up seeing and witnessing but never having.

Hence he was intrigued, almost allured by the Musketeers.

For as much as he was a fighter, Porthos was a Parisian; he appreciated an eye-pleasing sight in whatever form it came, just as he appreciated the apparent discipline of these men. He would sit with friends playing cards or needlessly polishing blades, and he would watch the Musketeers spar just beyond the narrow clearing 'separating' the two regiments' camps. The others scoffed at the thin rapiers the men used for blades, and laughed at their lunges and turns, but Porthos, untrained as he was in that noble art, watched them with interest, not unable to notice tactics or patterns the more he observed the men practice one-on-one. Sure, those bendy swords didn't look fit for the battleground, and surely those blue padded vests couldn't pass for armour, but for one, Porthos was intelligent enough to trust that if the king had a new regiment put together and sent to war, the men in it needed indeed to be the best, for their success or failure on the battleground would directly reflect upon the king. And surely they could not be so bad, nor so green, since they were headed by Monsieur de Tréville.

None dared to speak badly of M. de Tréville.

Only the name itself inspired a quiet, but undeniable sense of respect among the infantrymen.

A known favourite of the king, it was said that M. de Tréville wasn't noble-born, nor was he a courtier. It was said he'd risen through the ranks, a soldier through and through, and that he'd had the honour of teaching the king sword-fighting in the monarch's not-so-distant youth. Then surely, Porthos thought, a regiment of Musketeers led by this man would consist of men who knew what they were doing. Surely, soon enough, when the fighting began, everyone would get their measure.

But Porthos never got the chance to observe them up close.

Come the day of fighting, they learned that the Musketeers, divided into three groups, would be leading the charge, their part in the battle moving on and ending before Porthos's regiment ever caught up.

That morning, in the frenzy of preparations, Porthos did not spare them much thought.

Until, around the afternoon, in the heat of battle, he ran across the field and ducked behind cover to hide from an oncoming volley, and found himself pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with none other than Monsieur de Tréville, captain of the Musketeers.

He didn't have time to properly bask in that awe - the ground shook with a violent roar and Porthos instinctively ducked again, throwing an arm over his head with a startled cry. Dust and gravel rained down on them, showering them in dirt and dried mud. When it finally settled and Porthos brought down his arm, coughing and looking around, he saw the man beside him slumped against the rise, looking dazed under the blood pouring down his face.

"Oi – sir, you aligh'?"

He barely heard his own voice over the melee, and Tréville did not answer him, staring instead at something beside him on the ground. It was a body, lying face down. A blue sash wound above his hip, and a large, wet stain still spreading over it. Cursing aloud, Porthos whipped out a kerchief from his pocket and pressed it onto the bleeding gash on M. de Tréville's brow without ceremony, trying to see if the downed man was still alive. Tréville winced, but otherwise, did not react.

Neither did he raise a hand to hold the cloth. Porthos turned his attention back to the man.

"Hey – hey, look at me! Look at me – Monsieur de Tréville, right? What're you doin' 'ere – where are your men? _Sir!_ "

But Tréville was still staring, though at something else this time, even as he blinked distractedly while Porthos held the kerchief to his brow. Porthos followed the blue gaze to see a bloodied sword, with a flat-blade and plain hilt. He turned his eyes back to Tréville and noticed only then that the man's hands, gloves shredded to pieces, were dripping with blood.

He cursed again. He couldn't fathom what had happened, but he needed to get Monsieur de Tréville out of here.

Trying to ignore the fact that he was practically manhandling the king's favourite, Porthos tied the kerchief around the unresisting man's head, then, apologizing under his breath, he turned to remove the sash from around the dead Musketeer's waist. He half-worried if Tréville would object to what he was doing, but there was no response at all from the man. Keeping his head below the ground and his ear trained on the goings-around, Porthos quickly cut strips from the relatively clean parts of the sash and wound them around Tréville's hands. Then, as soon as he caught a lull in the assault, he threw Tréville's arm over his shoulder and took his chance.

It was a dangerous climb and run, but soon enough, they were out of the battle zone, safely under the trees of the forest edging the camp on the other side.

M. de Tréville, worryingly pliant, walked with him easily enough.

But he did not speak.

Finally reaching the camp, breathless after the fight and the exertion, Porthos directly guided Tréville to the first empty tent that he found. He directed the man to sit on a stool just within the open flap, and grabbed the bottle he glimpsed lying on the floor, not believing his luck - sour as it was, it was wine.

He took a glorious sip, then turned to offer the bottle to Tréville, only to stop when he remembered about the man's hands.

Short of... feeding the man the wine... he couldn't make Tréville drink. _Merde_ \- what an awkward position this was!

" _Monsieur_ Tréville. Come on, look at me. Lemme take care of these hands, Monsieur, hm?" He glimpsed at Tréville's face as he gently grasped the man's wrists, and was half-disappointed when he met no resistance. He turned the hands palms up. "Wait 'ere."

He scrambled to his feet and rushed about the camp to procure a basin of water. With the fight still going on, there were very few men milling about. When he returned to the tent, he was both relieved and somewhat anxious to find that the Captain had not moved. The bloodied hands remained open, propped on his knees just as Porthos had left them, while the blue eyes roamed slowly over the camp, although, finally, _finally_ , with a flicker of awareness in them.

Just as Porthos approached, Tréville seemed to shake himself, took a deep breath and absently raised a hand to rub at his face.

"'ey- no –!"

But it was too late. Tréville dropped his hand with a violent flinch and a vicious curse, having left a smear of blood on his cheek. Hastily Porthos put down the basin and cloth in his hand, only to raise himself and find he didn't know what to do with his own hands. He stood awkwardly, towering over Tréville's sitting form.

The captain raised his head slowly, looked at Porthos with a frown, and asked, in a commanding tone, "Who are you?"

Porthos blinked. "Porthos. I.. pulled you from the trench. Remember?"

Tréville's eyes narrowed as he stared intently at him, and Porthos felt himself slightly fidgeting. After what felt like an eternity, Tréville released him.

"My apologies... Porthos," he said, hesitant, no doubt feeling the effect of that head wound, "I... seem to owe you my life...?" He looked at him questioningly, unsure.

"Nah, I've done nothin'," Porthos said. "Are you... well, sir? Anythin' I can do?"

Tréville frowned again as if he did not understand the question.

"That's a nasty wound on your head. An' your hands – they need tendin' to."

"My hands..." Tréville repeated slowly, lowering his gaze to contemplate the lacerated palms, or, perhaps, the remnants of the once-blue sash of the dead Musketeer. He remained like that for long moments, as if seeing things only visible to himself, until he shook himself with an effort and looked at Porthos again.

"Are you skilled at this, Porthos?"

"What - sewin' wounds?" Surprised and horrified at the thought, Porthos shook his head vehemently. "No. I dig out a bullet or cauterize a cut alrigh', but with somethin' like this," he nodded towards the man's hands, "I wouldn' put my faith in me. Sir," he added as an afterthought, feeling awkward again.

Tréville smiled faintly. "Very well. I thank you, Porthos, for your help. Do me one last favour, if you would? Find the Musketeer Aramis, ask him to come see me when he can? He must be here in the camp."

"Aye, sir." So _polite_. _Ask him to see me when he can_ \- Porthos could almost hear him say 'cordially invite' instead. Honestly, he'd never had any superior like M. de Tréville –never had a proper _Monsieur_ for a superior, for that matter. Captains and lieutenants he'd had, had been either too greedy or too full of themselves for their own good, and he'd served under generals he'd only heard of but never seen. With a nod, he half-turned to leave, but then hesitated. Tréville, with his hands in those haphazard strips and Porthos's ruined kerchief around his head, looked pretty much... ruined.

"Are you...uh, you gonna be alrigh'? You're not gonna be able to 'old anythin' with those hands, or do much of anythin'." He worried momentarily if he'd overstepped a boundary by pointing out the obvious but Tréville just smiled again - tightly, but sincerely.

"That is what Aramis is for."

"He's a medic?"

"No. But he has... nimble hands. Or so goes his reputation," he added, smile turning crooked. Porthos, serious, nodded.

"I'll find an' send 'im here-"

"Porthos. _When he is able_."

Porthos knew an order when he heard one, and this was definitely an order. But Porthos had never been ordered _politely_ before.

"Right," he mumbled, "When 'e is able. I, uh... I'll take me leave." And not giving himself more time to be more awkward around the man, he quickly left the tent, muttering 'bout actin' like a shy raw recruit, and went in search of the Musketeer Aramis, cordially invited to his captain's tent, whenever he was able to attend.

Two months later, after the hardest of the battles were fought and the tallies of the dead and injured filled rolls and rolls of parchment for the archives, the reputation of the Musketeers took a drastic, even dramatic turn for the better, word got out that Captain Tréville was looking to recruit men. And before that day was out, Porthos found himself personally summoned to the Captain's tent, to be offered a place in the King's most elite regiment.

He accepted without hesitation, like it was a loaf of bread up for grabs in the Court of Miracles.

He was now Porthos... of the King's Musketeers.

None dared to speak ill of them from that time onwards.

* * *

 _... until the Red Guard came along._


	3. Insomnia

_Some descriptions of battle violence ahead._

* * *

In the grand scheme of things, hundreds of years later when people look back on these days, they'll write them down as a pivotal point in the Franco-Spanish war.

Today, it is just hell on earth.

/

Athos is calm until the day wears itself out, until the battlefield has been searched; bodies, shot, mangled and blown apart, are pulled out and gathered, identified, written down and buried. He is calm until he's covered in so much dirt and grime, up to his knees and elbows, to his hair and toes, under his nails and in his ears, that it feels like even the blood in own his veins hasn't escaped. He is calm until he finds himself alone in his tent near midnight, his feet nailed to the ground from the soles of his boots, unable to move as if enclasped by thick, muscular arms from behind, temporarily numb.

He is vaguely aware that men are gathered outside. He does not know why - he hasn't seen that they have noticed his frame of mind.

There's a basin and a pitcher for him on the rickety desk. A struggling lantern hangs from a nail on the post, filling the tent with more darkness than light, throwing trembling shadows on the dismal furnishings. A worn-out sheepskin on the chair, a plain wooden trunk, a haphazard blanket and pillow on the cot.

A bottle of Bourgogne and a cup.

All these things, the basest necessities they may be, are made ready for him. That bothers him more than it should - more than it has - and now, standing there, Athos feels like a stranger in his own tent.

Normalcy is strange after a day in hell. The silence and the being alone.

He sets his jaw and forces himself to move, wrenching one leg from the clutch of that phantom force, and approaches the desk. Dips both hands into the full basin and watches them submerge, the water tepid and clean, smooth and soothing, but... it is _wrong._

 _Wrong,_ the water and its cleanliness _; wrong_ , that they have been prepared for him. He may be captain but this, now, makes him feel like a _comte_ and that is wrong – he does not deserve any of this. Not on any given day but certainly not today – not today, when he has failed to protect his men, when he has led so many of them to their graves when he should have stood his ground and not given in to the general and that is an absurd thought but the weight of the day is coming down too hard to hang on to rationality's silken threads.

But his hands are clean now, of the blood that is not his and the mud and the grime. He watches them, steady, lift themselves out and dry themselves on a cloth. _Twenty-four_.

That is the count.

The Musketeers that died today – the bodies and limbs they've just finished burying. There's a sack lying open just near the flap. It's filled with items gathered from the bodies of his men. There's a silver belt-buckle, and a gold-edged, decorated powder horn. A dozen swords with names inscribed on them, and rings: family heirlooms, wedding bands, treasured gifts. Crosses and gloves and weapons belts – items that once decorated Athos's brave men, now waiting to be sent to their loved ones.

What is left of the regiment is waiting outside. For what, Athos doesn't know because his words to them have already been said, spent as they'd stood by the graves of their brothers. They wait in vain, for Athos, tonight, will not go out.

When Porthos comes to check on him first and then d'Artagnan, he gathers his exhaustion and his wounds around him like a cloak and sends them away. The night is spent wide awake, and from that day on, the captain's sleepless nights begin.

/

It starts with the bags under his eyes. The morning after that terrible day, no one's surprised to see them – most of the men are supporting the same circles under their eyes. But by the fourth day, some of them already begin to speculate that the captain might be drinking again. Yet Athos is as clear-headed, as clipped and distant, and as sharp as he's always been. Sharp, in ways more than one, for somehow, strong emotion always seems to whet Athos like a blade. No one can put a finger on what is different when he's this way, but he is _dangerous_ when he's charged.

Smart men as they are, they get on with their duties, keeping a respectful, if also wary, distance from the captain.

A week passes by, the lantern in the captain's tent lit up until sunrise every night, and the men, Porthos and d'Artagnan at the helm, begin to interrogate Dupond, the captain's young aide, on whether Athos is eating, sleeping, or getting any rest when he is closed up in that tent. For even to Porthos and d'Artagnan, Athos has his figurative doors closed. The two men know their third all too well - understand his woe all too well – to impose on him too much right now; Athos had objected to the assault plan on that day. He had been overruled. Not a single soul feels that Athos is to blame but, regardless of any unfounded feelings of guilt, the horror of that battle is already giving everyone nightmares. Athos is hardly the only one having trouble sleeping.

So they give him time and they give him space.

And they worry.

When over two weeks pass, Athos has visibly lost weight and his drawn features have already become a permanent fixture, they can remain silent no more.

/

In the morning, Porthos walks by the young aide on his way to the smithy's workshop, and when he returns the same way five minutes later, Dupond seems to be having his second plate of breakfast. This draws Porthos's attention. He stops, frowning, and that's more than enough for Dupond to gulp and guiltily leave the plate aside and stand up.

"It's the captain's," he explains uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "I just went in to bring it to him but he said he won't have it and said that I could."

Porthos scrutinizes the lad for a long moment, then releases him. He has no doubt that Dupond is telling the truth. Instead, he turns dark, concerned eyes towards the command tent. The time for intervention is approaching.

In the afternoon, it is d'Artagnan who goes into the tent and finds Athos's mid-day meal untouched. But unexpectedly, Athos cannot remain unmoved by the naked despair in his friend's eyes, and he takes the first step, quietly admitting to d'Artagnan that he cannot sleep.

And that he cannot _drink_ himself to sleep.

The touch of lament in that sacred confession breaks d'Artagnan's heart.

"How can I help?" he asks, simple and sincere. Athos sighs and closes the book in his hand, and offers him a tired half-smile.

"I do not believe it can be helped."

"Did you ask Establet? Perhaps he can give you something - "

"I have. The result was... less than desirable."

He doesn't say that the only thing Establet's potion did is to remind him needlessly of Aramis. A deep sense of longing fills Athos now as he remembers their missing friend again. Aramis with his kindness and his wit and warmth. He sighs again. Putting down the book, he rubs his forehead - the last thing he can deal with is another added layer of loss. A headache is mounting yet again, as they, too, have become a fixture these days.

"You can't go on like this, Athos," d'Artagnan states, concern bleeding through, "You're going to make yourself ill -"

"I am not making myself anything, I assure you," Athos intercepts, raising his head slowly to look at d'Artagnan. Exhaustion is taking its toll on him. He's taken exception at the suggestion that he's deliberately harming himself.

"Athos, you are not eating properly - " d'Artagnan re-starts, not at all accusatory but-

"Not by my own choice," comes the stiff reply.

"Well, are you trying hard enough?!" the question just bursts. The moment he speaks, d'Artagnan realizes just how utterly petulant that sounds, but backing down isn't in his nature so he stands his ground and waits.

Athos stares at him for the longest moment, his face unmoving, and when he speaks, his voice is even and lordly.

"I thank you for your concern. But if you will excuse me, I have matters that I must attend."

"Athos – "

"That will be all."

The subject is closed, and the Gascon is left out.

He leaves, frustrated, but wows that this is not the end of it - he will try again.

Athos _cannot_ shut him out.

/

"Will you not rest?" he asks, kindly, at another time.

"I cannot."

"Then I'll keep you company."

Athos turns his head just until he can see him with the corner of his eye.

"I thank you. But I do not require company this night."

"Why not?"

"Because _I_ am not good company tonight. Go to sleep, d'Artagnan. You'll be needed alert and ready tomorrow." And he turns his back, the dark leather stretched over his frame glinting red in the firelight.

A mountain of will, daring d'Artagnan to climb.

But Athos has only ever been the one mountain he cannot scale. With immense sadness in his heart, d'Artagnan rises and retreats for the night.

But even though he doesn't know it yet, he has, in fact, successfully worn Athos out. For the reaction the next time is an angry hiss and an unbecoming slap on the tent's flap when he walks in to find Porthos in his tent.

"What is this," he spits, "are you taking turns?"

"What did you expect?" Porthos asks, not a trace of humour or lightness in his voice – the question is brutally blunt.

"Leave me be, Porthos." He stalks past the bigger man to walk towards the desk.

"Leave you to _what?_ " Porthos asks, following, _"_ Spend another night strollin' 'round the camp like a ghost – continue workin' yourself to your grave? The men are worried 'bout you, Athos – _we_ are worried. You 'aven't been yourself since Breisach."

Athos huffs a short, impatient breath, and speaks over his shoulder, his voice lordlier and mightier than ever.

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to pick yerself up," Portos puts forcefully. "The man I'm lookin' at, that ain't the Athos I know. You're not eatin', you're not sleepin' – hell - _when_ did you last sleep?"

"When I was able," Athos grinds out, the words enunciated as if talking to a retard. He turns around to look at Porthos squarely in the eye. "I appreciate the concern. But I do not appreciate the implication from both you and d'Artagnan that I am deliberately negligent in my health. Because I assure you, I am not. I _cannot_ sleep."

The unexpected frankness, framed within that rebuke as it is, softens Porthos considerably. He shakes his head.

"That ain' what's botherin' us, brother. It is that you won' open up. This can hardly be the first time you're losin' sleep an' I get it, Athos - I get that with not drinkin' an' all maybe you're findin' copin' hard -" he pauses, regarding the man determinedly staring below at the ground, jaw tight-set, "but if there's one way I know that's gonna solve this, it is to _talk_."

But when did Athos ever _talk_?

Predictably, he keeps silent.

"What is it that you need hearin'?" Porthos presses. "That what happened in Breisach wasn't your fault? It _wasn't._ You warned the general and the Marquis that it would 'ave been a slaughter; it's not your fault they didn' listen - "

"Yet I could have refused to follow their orders. I could have refused to lead _twenty-four_ of my men to their graves. What, tell me, will exonerate me from that?"

Porthos blinks, then nods heavily. There is the source of the conflict, of the sleepless nights.

"You already know the answer to that," he says.

"Yet it is not satisfactory, Porthos. Not this time. I could have _refused_."

"An' you'd be court-martialled and possibly stripped of your commission - where would that leave _us_? With Duval as the cap'n?" Porthos snorts.

"I am not worth the lives of twenty-four men."

"Now that is some warped thinkin', Athos, you gotta know that."

"Do I?" Athos asks, almost, _almost_ sarcastically, but Porthos ignores it, shaking his head again.

"I see now why you didn't want to accept Tréville's offer in the first place. Is this what you feared would 'appen? That you'd try to remove yourself from responsibility the moment it became too much?"

The words have all the subtlety of a battering ham. And they quickly produce the desired effect: Athos fingers begin to clench at the sides.

"Careful, Porthos."

"Why? Tell me I'm wrong. No?" He chuckles humourlessly. "I'm gettin' a really strange sense of _deja-vu_ , Athos – I'm really hoping you prove me wrong again but right now, I gotta say it, my friend, what you're doin' is plain cowardly."

Athos _seethes_. But he does not break.

Porthos does.

Crossing the space in two strides he grabs Athos by the arms and shakes him roughly. "Enough of this," he growls, their faces inches apart, "Athos - _enough of this!_ "

"Unhand me," says Athos coldly.

"No." The fingers dig even deeper into Athos's arms, bruising. " _No -_ not until you pull your head together and start actin' like yourself again."

But he doesn't expect Athos to tense, brace himself and suddenly shove him across the chest – _hard -_ and he stumbles back, wincing as his legs hit the edge of the wooden trunk behind.

As he's pushing himself up, a grin begins to stretch over Porthos's lips. A predatory glint in his eyes, either possessed by the devil or struck by divine inspiration, he crouches, and he lunges.

Then it is a proper, no-holds-barred fist-fight.

/

In the end, after d'Artagnan has run in at some point to break them apart and received a punch across the jaw for his trouble; the men are gathered outside just as they did two weeks ago, worrying about what's going on; all three Musketeers are sitting on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, lips split and noses bleeding, knuckles bruised and breathing hard.

Sandwiched between Porthos and d'Artagnan, Athos is trembling from head to toe.

He draws both legs up, wraps his arms around them and bows his head until his forehead touches his knees. As the tremors begin to ease and he slowly tips sideways, Porthos puts an arm around him and pulls him gently to himself.

In the morning, when he wakes up stiff and aching and huddled under a blanket that hadn't been there, he finds Athos still deeply asleep, slumped heavily against his chest.

He gathers him close, shuts his eyes and says one of Aramis's prayers of thanks.


	4. Poison

_I decided to cheat and not follow the prompt order. This is for "poison", and it will be followed by a second part, for the prompt "fever"._

* * *

It was hot.

It was very, seriously, damningly hot. And it wasn't even noon yet.

d'Artagnan, straight as a street lantern, blinked as a drop of perspiration managed to climb the mound of his brow and slide down into his left eye. Porthos stood as if the heat had dried him and turned him into a sculpture made of clay. Aramis might be slightly swaying like an aspen tree. Athos had taken off his gloves. It was _hot_.

The king and the queen stopped long enough before them to offer a downward twist of the lips and a sympathetic glance, respectively, before moving on.

To their utter amazement, five minutes later, when the Royals and the courtiers had disappeared inside and Athos caught Tréville's eye across the lawn, the captain gave a grave nod to indicate they were relieved of duty, and almost momentarily, a servant approached them with a silver tray in his hand, a decanter and four cups expertly balanced.

Athos raised an eyebrow at the man.

"Her Majesty's orders," the servant explained briefly.

"Bless her," Porthos muttered, immediately reaching for the decanter; d'Artagnan's shoulders sagged, raising a mildly-shaking hand to wipe his brow, and Aramis, propping himself against the nearby table, smiled so disproportionately warm and glowingly that Athos had to throw him a sharp glare.

The wine was cool and refreshing, and the Musketeers' love and respect for their queen, if possible, grew. Soon, Captain Tréville had marched across the lawn to join them, and his first words, accompanied by a tough look at d'Artagnan, were directed at Aramis.

"I am assuming d'Artagnan here has yet to acquaint himself with the fine hat-makers of Paris," he said in displeasure. "Take him to Saint-Germain, make sure he buys a hat? Only fools go around bare-headed in this heat, let alone stand guard. Athos, Porthos," he turned to his other men, "you're coming to the garrison with me. We must set up the guard detail for the banquet this afternoon."

"Do I really have to?" d'Artagnan muttered as soon as the captain and the others were out of earshot. Fanning himself with his own hat, Aramis looked at him amusedly.

"We do as we are told, _mon ami_ , unless you prefer facing the captain's wrath. I, for one, certainly do not. Come," he said, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the back of his neck, "I know the best place we can get you a hat." He grinned as they began to walk. "It's been a while since I last paid a visit to Madame Thévénot's."

d'Artagnan sighed,resigned to his fate, and fell into step with him, on his way to buying his first hat.

* * *

Not one hour later, he was slumped against the shade of a wall in a deserted back alley, trying not to fall.

One shoulder pressed into the hard, blessedly cool masonry, d'Artagnan scrunched his eyes against the pounding in his head, doing his best to simply stand upright, willing his legs to not fail him now. The air he breathed felt like a dry, almost solid vapour, if such a thing were possible; he could feel it clotting and piling up inside his lungs, and he feared if he breathed like this any longer, his chest would fill up and he would have no more space in his ribcage to draw any more breath. Aramis's weight on his other shoulder was pulling him down, threatening to sap the last of his own strength - but he could not go on now; he needed rest. Just a few moments of rest and then he would...

The jagged surface of the wall chafed hard against his skin and his eyes flew open, something between a silent sob and a whimper escaping him. Immensely glad that there was no one around to witness that, he forced himself upright once again; adjusted Aramis's arm on his shoulder, securing his hold on the man's waist, and pushed himself off.

 _They had to get to the garrison._

 _He_ had to get to the garrison.

He wasn't sure if Aramis was breathing anymore.

* * *

"Captain!"

"What is it?" Tréville snapped as he turned sharply to look out of the window. The Musketeer Boutin, on guard duty at the gate, braced himself on the sill and poked his head inside.

"Aramis and d'Artagnan - they've taken ill as well!"

"Where are they?"

"Here - the men are bringing them in." Boutin looked over his shoulder in the courtyard to affirm that indeed, both men, just at the verge of consciousness, were being helped into the infirmary.

"Dear God," Tréville muttered, rubbing a hand down his face before marching towards the infirmary door to greet them, "this is no coincidence!" Athos and Porthos were already in beds, being presided over by Dr. Lemay.

"D'Artagnan," Tréville breathed, seeing that he was the more aware of his two men and immediately taking his arm, "what has happened?"

"I don't... know," the Gascon panted, unable to draw in enough air or see straight, so badly was his head aching. "We had... just bought the hat.. the heat.. it's -"

"Alright, don't worry yourself," Tréville cut him off, leading him to the nearest bed. "Dr. Lemay is here. You'll be fine."

He proceeded to remove the man's doublet even as Boutin helped him to sit up on the bed. d'Artganan, pliant and sweating heavily, feebly gestured towards the general direction of the room.

"Aramis..."

"He's being looked after. Lie back. Lemay?"

"Divest him of his garments, Captain, and give him water. It appears that they are suffering from the same thing that ails your other two men. Cold water and more cloths," he instructed at the other Musketeer helping him with Aramis.

"And you still have no idea what it is?"

"As I have said, heat exhaustion would be my first thought, but I do not believe that is what we're facing here. It is too much of a coincidence that all four of them have begun displaying the same symptoms at the same time. Our priority," he said, laying a hand on Aramis's brow and frowning, "is to bring their body temperatures down. In this heat, that presents the biggest danger." He walked over to take the basin provided by the Musketeer Laurent with a nod of thanks.

d'Artagnan, whose eyes had fallen close, opened them, and listlessly turned his head on the pillow, his gaze wandering until it stopped on the bed opposite his own.

"Is that... who is-"

"It is Athos," Tréville supplied, laying a wet cloth over the Gascon's wrist, "they, too, have fallen ill soon after we returned from the palace. Easy, lad," he pressed on d'Artagnan's shoulder when he instinctively moved as if to get up. "This makes no sense," the captain muttered under his breath, taking another cloth to lay it on d'Artagnan's brow.

"You're thinking... the wine- aargh!" With a sharp groan d'Artagnan sat up and doubled over, one hand flying to his chest, his breathing turning erratic. Lemay immediately scrambled over, sneaking his hand to lay it over d'Artagnan's heart and waiting for a few moments, listening. Then he put his other hand on d'Artagnan's back and gently began to push him once more on his back. Alarmed, Tréville aided him from the other side, waiting for instruction. d'Artagnan's eyes were wide. Lemay leaned over him, his hand still on the Gascon's chest.

"D'Artagnan, I need you to listen to me. You must control your breathing; your heart is beating too fast. You must take slow, long breaths. Follow my example." Shifting his hand to grab d'Artagnan's wrist and keep his fingers on the pulse, he guided the frightened Gascon to calm down his breathing.

 _The wine..._

Could it be the wine?

"What's... goin' on there?"

The captain looked up to see Porthos looking groggily around, face pinched in discomfort.

"It's Aramis and d'Artagnan. They, too, are ailing, Porthos."

"Wha'?"

Like d'Artagnan, Porthos too moved as if to get up, but he, too, failed, groaning as he fell back. His hand flew to his forehead and Tréville could see even from the distance that he was swallowing profusely to keep sickness down.

"Please stay in bed, Porthos," Doctor Lemay called over, "You are all reacting to something I am beginning to suspect more and more that is poison. Without a sample of the original substance, I cannot hazard a guess as to what it is, so we must try to counter these symptoms as swiftly as we can. I'll need your full cooperation on this. I trust you will comply?"

Porthos brought his hand down and looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye. You c'n count on me."

"Very good." Looking down, he was satisfied with d'Artagnan's progress. "Please stay with him, Captain." Then he moved quickly back to Aramis's side.

"The wine..."

This time it was Athos who spoke, his voice a hoarse, painful whisper. Unlike Aramis, who already supported the dangerous flush of fever on his cheeks, Athos was as pale as a sheet, and when he spoke, it was apparent that he had difficulty taking in full breaths.

"All four of us," he continued as Tréville approached and drew the cover up over his shoulders when he saw his lieutenant shivering, the blue eyes nevertheless insistent, "the banquet... they took.. us out."

Tréville nodded, having reached the same conclusion. "I'll double the guard and let the king know what has happened. Rest, Athos." He pressed a hand on his lieutenant's shoulder, and helped him to some water before walking over to check on Aramis.

Lemay had already laid a cloth upon the marksman's brow, and like d'Artagnan, Aramis seemed to be breathing very fast and very shallowly, although his eyes were resolutely closed. Lemay appeared concerned.

"I fear a seizure if we do not bring his temperature down quickly. He is burning fiercely."

"What do you need?"

"Nothing more than what we already have here," Lemay returned, calm and professional despite the deep crease on his brow. He picked a vial from his large kit and put a few drops into a cup of wine. He looked up at Tréville before bending over to help Aramis with the medicine. "If there is somewhere you need to be, Captain, I am well-equipped here. Be assured, I will do everything in my power to help your men."

Tréville nodded, grateful for Lemay's calmness in the face of this crisis. But he was not naive. Looking around the room to take in each of his men - d'Artagnan still slightly panting with one hand on his chest; Athos turned on his side and clutching at the covers as he shivered fiercely; Porthos sat up on the bed with his head bowed low and arms folded around his stomach - he feared, deeply, that if Lemay could not identify the poison, then he could not cure what it was doing to his men.

The captain was frightened, although not a single hair, nor any crease on his brow betrayed it. But if he would allow himself one small breach of sentimentality, he would pull his captaincy around him and order his Inseparables to not even think about dying when he was gone.

 _Les Inseparables._ It suddenly occurred to Tréville, as if whispered in his ear by a malevolent spirit from afar, that if one of them died, the others would follow him just so he wouldn't be alone.

But what a ridiculous thought that was, and how unlike Tréville! He firmly shook himself. This was no time for sentimentality.

Someone had poisoned his men - _the best of his men_. Someone clearly intended to make a move against the king or the queen. Or someone attending the banquet this afternoon as a guest. There was no time to lose.

Making sure that Lemay had everything he needed and ordering Boutin and Laurent to assist him in whatever he may need, the captain stalked out into the courtyard, ordered Jacques to bring his horse and rode hard to the Louvre.

* * *

"Good God, Tréville - who could have done that?! Are you saying someone just walked into the palace kitchens, disguised himself as a servant and poisoned my Musketeers? What if it was me or the queen they poisoned?! What kind of security are you calling this?!"

Perhaps, this once, the king actually had a point there, Tréville acceded. He stood silent and still, waiting for the storm to pass, and only too thankful that the snake, Rochefort, at least, was nowhere in sight.

Not that it mattered. The moment he heard of it, he'd take full advantage of it - _the rat._

After pacing up and down two more times, Louis stopped, glaring daggers at the captain.

"How will this culprit be caught? Am I safe in my own palace, Tréville? Is it safe for me to hold a banquet in my own garden, without having to worry about myself or my queen getting killed?"

"The only people who can identify the culprit are my men, sire, who, at the moment, are fighting for their lives. I have doubled the security for the banquet, and all food and drink to be served will be tested twice. However..."

"What?" the king asked grouchily, crossing his arms.

"I would still recommend your majesty to postpone the engagement until those responsible are caught."

Louis's face hardened. "Out of the question," he said coldly, his eyes narrowing. "No. I will not hide. Find Rochefort and ask him to supply your Musketeers with the Red Guard. If any of my guests so much as sneezes wrong, Tréville, I will hold you responsible." Fear danced in his eyes behind the mask of anger. "You are dismissed."

The captain bowed and turned sharply on his heel, leaving the hall in long, furious strides.

He understood Louis. He understood his fear. He admitted that, indeed, it could very well have been the king or the queen who had been poisoned, but the fact remained that Musketeers were responsible for the safety of the king and the queen - not that of the palace. Musketeers did not stand guard at the Louvre's numerous gates, or inspect the kitchens or servants' quarters. Musketeers were the last circle of defence.

Out of all days, this day, when the best of his men - _His_ Musketeers when there was something to be proud, Tréville's Musketeers if otherwise - had been targeted, the captain really could have done with a touch of understanding. One glance of sympathy, one small question after the men's well-being. But that was unreasonable.

This was Louis. In all fairness; understanding and sympathy, Tréville knew, would come later, after the fear and the anger passed.

Clamping down hard on his emotions and steeling himself, he walked past the guards before Rochefort's apartments without so much as slowing his stride, and entered unannounced, mildly satisfied when Rochefort looked up in irritation, not bothering to dignify the man's snarky remark with a reply. The sooner he could get over with this day, the sooner he could get back.

As he began to relay to Rochefort all that had passed, he only prayed that he would not return to the garrison to find that he had seen the last of his men.


	5. Fever-Caregiver I

_Firstly: thank you all for the reviews and follows! I'm working my way through these prompts - slowly, but surely._

 _Secondly: This was supposed to be for 'fever', continuing on from 'poison'. It still is, only it merged with another prompt, 'caregiver', which is good because this story just grew a third head. So take this one -and the next- as you please for those two prompts._ _(And sorry for my generally awful editing - I am a hopeless case.)_

* * *

The deeper hours of the night found Captain Tréville in the garrison infirmary, working diligently to keep his men alive.

Dunk the cloth in water, wring, apply on forehead. _Hush_. Move. Take cloth. Rinse, wring, re-apply. _Easy. D'Artagnan - come on, son. Easy now._ Move. How is he?

A shake of the head. Push hair back, feel the brow. Burning. Burning - all of them - they are _burning_ and it feels like there's a limit, an invisible line, one that shouldn't be crossed and it's a race to keep this raging fever below that line and it has fully consumed Tréville; this mad rush, this desperate toiling. He's lost track of time, aware only of his wet hands and hot, clammy skin under his touch.

 _Keep fighting, Aramis._

 _Keep fighting._

Athos's erratic breathing has him frightfully glance in his lieutenant's direction every few moments.

Porthos, at the opposite end, is breathing so heavily and labourously that it's as if his chest is being crushed under a pile of rocks.

 _Fight._

 _All of you. I_ _order you to fight._

"Captain."

He looked up to find a hand on his arm and the Musketeer Boutin watching him with worried eyes.

"I've brought in some stew. Take a break for a moment, sir. I'll take over."

"What's the time?" Tréville asked.

"Nearing two o'clock. Take a break, Captain," Boutin repeated, eyes dark, "You need it."

He was right. Yet Tréville could not leave - not when his Inseperables were in this state. Wiping his hands on a towel left on the nightstand, he looked up to glance around the infirmary, taking it in as if seeing it for the first time.

The room glowed bright with the light of dozens of candles scattered around. The air weaving in and out of the room, blessedly light in sharp contrast to the heat of the day, was playfully teasing the flames, dancing with the ghosting shadows on the walls. The quiet sounds of a subdued crowd filtered in from the courtyard - most of the men were awake, awaiting news of their friends and comrades. The captain felt as if it had been not hours, but days.

"Captain?"

Instead of looking at Boutin, he looked down at Aramis's face, and made up his mind.

"I'll stay. Thank you, Boutin." He reached again for the cloth he'd left in the water, and wrung it to wipe Aramis's brow.

He would not leave.

Not until each one of them awoke.

/

"Father..."

"Easy, lad. Your father's not here."

"No - he died. He died - they killed him, Captain - "

"For God's sake, Lemay - he's shivering like a leaf! Easy, d'Artagnan -"

"Four drops of the concoction in half a glass of water, Captain; like the last time. It is time for another dose."

"Are you certain this concoction of yours is doing _anything_ to bring their fevers down?!"

"I am certain. If you would please?"

Once the crisis is over, the captain would recall the utter professionalism Lemay possessed with much gratitude and not a little amount of respect.

"Captain."

"Laurent?"

"It is Athos, sir - he's not doing so good."

He hurried to his lieutenant's side, the Musketeer Laurent retreating to d'Artagnan's in his place. Athos was breathing in such rapid, shallow pants, it was a wonder any air found its way into his lungs. Restless fingers twitched upon the sheets as the captain leaned over him; his lieutenant was murmuring, but no words could be made out.

"Athos?"

 _Fevered dreams._

God knew what haunted him now - his brother? his wife? Now he seemed to be pleading, whispering broken _please_ 's to ghosts from his past; now he seemed angry, trying to launch himself from the bed and Tréville had to hold him down. _Quick_ \- a new bucket of water. Cool cloth on the brow, on the wrists, on the chest. Make him drink. Give him the drugged wine. No - this isn't working - this isn't enough.

Crisis upon crisis: three beds down, Lemay let out a half-surprised, half-frustrated cry before shouting for Laurent and throwing himself over Aramis, who had begun to twitch uncontrollably on the bed. _I fear a seizure if we do not bring his temperature down._ Failure, as Captain Tréville watched in horror from where he was leaning over at the foot of the bed, pressing down one horribly shaking leg. _Dear God - Dear God_ - _Aramis -_

The fit eased after what felt like a lifetime, and stillness came like settling mud after a flood.

Stunned, the captain stepped back from the bed to allow room for Lemay, who had immediately begun taking care of his patient.

Without realizing it, he walked out, finding himself miraculously outside, in the courtyard.

He took a deep breath. _Two breaths. Three – Good God –_

"Captain?"

He opened his eyes.

Musketeers were looking at him with anxious faces, waiting for him to speak, worried if he was about to announce a death.

"They are fighting," he announced, brisk and loud enough. Just the act of addressing his men straightened the captain's sagged shoulders back again. He turned to the nearest men. "Duval, Berger - I need you to go to the palace. We need ice. Doctor Lemay is having trouble keeping their fevers down. Bring as much as you can - do _not_ return without it. I will deal with the accounting once this is over."

With sharp nods, the two Musketeers turned on their heels and were gone.

"Anything we can do, Captain?"

 _Pray. Pray for them._

The captain shook his head and returned inside.

/

 _There she was. Glowing. Not the shimmering cloth of her dress, nor the invaluable pieces of jewellery adorning her hands, her ears, her neck - no,_ _she_ _was glowing; irresistible. He took one step towards her. Her countenance changed, her features hardening into a deep frown._

 _"Who are you?" she asked, a note of fear sharpening her tone, "What is this man doing here? Guards?"_

 _"It is I, your majesty -"_

 _"Guards!" she called again, angry, "How dare you come into my apartments like this?"_

 _"Majesty -"_

 _Hands descended on his shoulders. A moment of surprise arrested him, then he tried to shake them off, struggling to free himself from their restraint - what was this? Who did these men think they were - they had_ _no_ _right. No right to stop him; he was a King's Musketeer, he was - he was_ _Aramis_ _. He told them so - threatened to cut off their arms if they didn't let go but they didn't budge. He couldn't move. Fury slowly gave way to fear: the more he couldn't move, the more frantic he became; darkness had begun to close in from all sides and his heart began to thump!-thump!-thump!, louder and louder as he watched her walk away, spitting curses at the phantom hands. She was walking away. She was fading into the distance but he had to talk to her, reach her before she disappeared completely -_

 _"Your majesty!"_

 _But no; down, down, down he was sinking, succumbing to a void sucking him in with greed. A black despair began to pour itself into his heart, choking, drowning, weighing him down until one sharp cry pierced the darkness, and his soul, like a fired musket ball._

 _The wailing cry of a child._

 _The baby he'd seen only twice._

 _He opened his mouth to scream; scream until there was no air in his lungs but there was no sound, and he fell, fell..._

 _...until there was nothing._


	6. Fever-Caregiver II

_The "poison" prompt turned out to be the gift that kept giving. There will be another chapter to this story, for the prompt "stay". It will be the last one._

* * *

It was a relief.

It was a much-needed wave of relief to have his lieutenant finally awake and to be helping him sit up a little in the bed. Sapped of his strength by the poison coursing through his veins, Athos accepted the water the captain helped him to with quiet gratitude.

"What... happened?" he asked, settling exhaustedly on the pillows.

"Do you not remember?"

"The wine..." Athos's brow creased as he thought, "Poisoned... The king?"

"Safe. Worry not." It was a long story. A long and unsatisfactory one and it could wait; this was not the time to relay it. Athos was silent for a few moments, and Tréville knew what question was coming moments before he spoke again.

"The others - are they-?"

"Alive, Athos," _thank God._ "You've given us some cause for worry, I'll admit that. But by the grace of God, Porthos's fever broke yesterday, and you and d'Artagnan," he nodded towards the bed across from them, "turned the corner this morning, just after dawn. This is the third day, by the way."

 _Oh,_ seemed to be Athos's thought on that, as his eyes lingered for a few moments on d'Artagnan's bed, where the Gascon lay still in deep slumber. Then his gaze travelled two beds down, to the corner of the room.

"Aramis?"

The unrelenting claws of fear tightened once again on the captain's momentarily relieved heart.

"Fighting."

"It is bad," said Athos, the words more of a statement than a question as he stared intently at the captain. Seeming to read everything Tréville didn't say from his face, he appeared resigned, and began to push back the cover over him in order to sit up. The captain shook his head.

"Athos..."

"Captain."

 _No,_ _there is no need for you to get up;_ _you're still weak and there is nothing you can do for Aramis anyway._

 _Do not deny me this,_ _I need to see them, I am sufficiently well._ In the end, the captain did not object when Athos managed to sit up, even though it left him trembling with weakness, and with a resigned sigh, he got up to take Athos's arm to help him to his feet.

"Where is Porthos?" Athos inquired as they walked the few steps.

"He's stepped out to refresh himself. He should return shortly."

The air was hot and humid as it had been for days. Athos was bare-feet; the flagstones cool, but filthy. Once they reached d'Artagnan's bed, Athos stood over his young friend and observed him quietly for long moments. Taking support from the wall, he reached one hand to lay it tenderly upon the Gascon's head, and let it rest for a while. Then he straightened and started towards Aramis's bed.

It was then that the infirmary door opened and Porthos entered, stopping short when he saw Athos up and about.

Crossing the room in quick strides he pulled Athos to himself, kissing him on the side of the head, to which Athos responded with a one-armed hug. Wordlessly, Porthos replaced Tréville to help him to Aramis, and they sat.

Aramis looked terrible.

How a man could look both pale and flushed at the same time Athos did not know, but there Aramis was, his normally healthy complexion faded to a dull almost-grey, his closed eyes roving under the cloth on his brow. He was breathing with the desperation of a man whose heart was about to burst, and his chest rose and fell rapidly under the thin shirt. Out of his own accord, Athos's hand reached to grip the marksman's restless fingers, clasping them in his palm. _Three days_. He'd been in this state for three days.

Athos slowly turned towards Tréville.

"Lemay... Doctor Lemay was here." Again, half a statement, half-question.

"Yes, he was."

"What is his prognosis? Why is Aramis still...like this?" And by God, Tréville could see the fear lurking under the tranquil surface. With yet another sigh, he lowered himself on the empty cot across from them, feeling the exhaustion deep in his bones.

"Gentlemen...," he began, looking from one of his men to the other, "Doctor Lemay says the poison they used would have affected each of you in varying degrees. You all drank from the same decanter, the same amount. Whatever it was, Porthos's metabolism fought it off easier than the rest of you. Aramis..." his eyes strayed towards his ailing man, "...is simply taking longer."

"But he will recover," Athos pressed, unsure.

"'course he will," Porthos intercepted in a quiet growl before the captain could respond, but Athos held Tréville's gaze, awaiting his answer. Tréville did not look away.

"Lemay is confident."

But just as he could read Athos, so the lieutenant could read the captain, and like Tréville, Athos had the grace to see but not probe. For despite Doctor Lemay's assurances, the captain still feared for Aramis's life.

~0~

 _The door burst open and the Musketeers Duval and Berger entered, each of them carrying two wooden crates under each arm. Tréville rose from Porthos's bedside to rush towards them, Doctor Lemay momentarily stopped over his patient, watching with a frown._

 _"You've brought it?"_

 _"Wasn't a problem. There's more outside."_

 _"Captain?"_

 _"I have ordered ice to be brought. I didn't ask your opinion, Monsieur, but I did not think you would object."_

 _"On the contrary - that is very well-thought," said Lemay, walking quickly over to take a large block of ice from one box. He laid it on a large piece of cloth, wrapped it and carried it over to Aramis, who, after the fit, lay still, his limbs twitching slightly every now and then. "We'll need more_ _cloths_ _to wrap the ice."_

 _More wet hands for next half-hour, sharp reactions to the applied ice when the cold contacted his Musketeers' burning skins. Time passed. The light changed, more people entered and left the room. There were more fevered dreams. Open, unseeing eyes, re-lived nightmares and galloping hearts. The smell of sweat in the cloying air, despite the open windows. Murmurs, occasional outbursts, nonsensical ramblings. The captain began to feel lightheaded; sick. He found himself staring at Aramis's face at some point, seeing it still, the struggling breast quietened._

 _Death, snuck_ _up on_ _them while they'd toiled._

 _Life, like sand between his fingers, had slipped away._

 _He'd never even noticed._ Aramis was gone.

 _But a quiet murmur pulled him out of that horrifying vision, and reality crystallized once again before his eyes: Aramis, very much alive, was pleading desperately, tossing his head from side to side._

 _"...majesty... Your_ _majesty_ _, I beg you..."_

 _Frowning, the captain wondered at Aramis's confused worry._

 _"Let me see him... Let me see him, please.."_

 _"Hush," Tréville said softly, grasping his man's arm, "your brothers are safe. They are here, with you."_

 _"Let me see him..."_

 _What_ _kind_ _of twisted nightmare was haunting him now? Who did he plead to see; why was he begging the king?_

 _What kind of impossible scenario played in his head, only God knew._

 _"Easy, my friend. It's only a dream. Don't distress yourself so."_

 _He wet the cloth and laid it on Aramis's forehead, then grabbed the man's hand, and prayed._

~0~

Late in the afternoon Porthos's fever had broken, and in the early hours of the evening he'd awakened, one-fourth of the weight crushing the captain's heart finally disappearing. Worry for his three friends had kept Porthos awake longer than he'd normally remain, but after a check-over by Doctor Lemay and half a forced bowl of soup, he'd fallen into a deep, healing sleep, to wake up much recovered in the morning.

Around daybreak, Lemay had announced that Athos had left the worst behind, followed shortly by d'Artagnan.

Nearing noon now on the third day, Aramis alone still burned.

And as long as he did, Tréville knew, this nightmare would continue.

* * *

 _ **Notes:** Athos is about twenty-five years ahead of his time in this chapter, as according to Merriam-Webster, the term 'prognosis' was first used in 1655. Tréville, on the other hand, is way ahead of his lieutenant, as 'metabolism' is as young a babe as having been born in 1878._


	7. Stay

_The only thing I proved with this Whumptober "challenge" is that I would make a very poor Musketeer indeed. Here is "stay", the concluding chapter of the poison plot. It was a bit of a nightmare to write, if you'll excuse the pun._

* * *

 _Movement._

 _Presences nearby._

 _Quiet conversation._

Aramis opened his eyes.

The scrape of a chair and the rustling of clothes as people came over to his side, and he blinked heavily to clear his shifting vision. Porthos was looming over him with dark, worried eyes.

"'bout time you woke up," he grouched.

"How are you? You're the last to wake up."

 _Last to wake..._ The word _poison_ was floating around his head like an irritating fly. He licked his lips, intending to speak, but startled slightly when a cup was put to his lips. He drank obediently, trying to get his bearings.

Porthos towered over him, with Athos standing behind. Tréville at the foot of the bed and d'Artagnan on the other side. The faint light of dusk filled the room _– the infirmary_ – _what had happened?_

"I don't suppose you remember fainting on me," d'Artagnan remarked humourlessly.

"Can't... say that I do."

"We've been poisoned. The servant at the palace grounds, with the wine from Her Majesty. It was three days ago."

Aramis stared at Athos blankly for several long seconds.

"Her Majesty—"

"Is safe," supplied Captain Tréville, staring at him with an odd frown. Aramis blinked again.

"The queen... wanted us poisoned?"

The question would have been ridiculous under any other circumstance, but now, Aramis watched a harried glance pass between his friends. The atmosphere seemed to tense imperceptibly - _what_ was _happening?_

"Of course not," said Athos calmly after a moment. "It was someone else. One of His Majesty's guests wanted us out of the way so he could hold a knife to the king's throat in the middle of the banquet. He was shot by Boutin, then subsequently took his own life before he could be questioned."

"And before you ask, it _is_ as ridiculous as that sounds," d'Artagnan put bitterly, sitting himself down on the nearby cot.

Now Aramis's head was spinning.

"Captain.."

"Don't worry yourself with it now, Aramis. I _am_ sorry to report, however, that the man's accomplice, the fake servant who brought you the wine, has vanished. I didn't see his face that day, so only the four of you know what he looks like."

"'an we 'ave no leads," Porthos grumbled, crossing his arms, his anger and dissatisfaction with the turn of events clear. Aramis looked at each of his friends, and saw the same despondency in their faces. _The man who'd almost killed them had gotten away._

He didn't know what to think or feel about any of this.

"The king... is well?"

"He is, though he was understandably upset. He is expecting to see you four as soon as you are back on your feet."

"For what?" d'Artagnan asked, still surprisingly bitter, "to reprimand us for getting poisoned?"

The captain threw him a sharp glare in silent warning. "My understanding," he put, "is that he wants to see you all back on duty as soon as possible. He's asked after you yesterday."

"Why... what did this – guest – have against the king? What purpose did poisoning us serve – he had to have known the king would be surrounded by Musketeers anyhow..."

"That, is the disturbing part," Tréville admitted, sighing deeply. In the fading light, he seemed almost as tired as his recuperating men. "The king is shocked – he can't think of any reason why the Baron would want to kill him. Besides, the fact that the man killed himself before he could be interrogated suggests that he wasn't acting alone."

"I doubt the fake servant was the mastermind," Athos put, looking terribly pale as he, too, sat, on the cot at the other side, passing a hand over his brow. "We're looking at a group of at least three, possibly more men involved in this plot."

"The security around the palace has been tightened," the captain nodded. "We don't know when they might try again, or in what way. As to why you four have been targeted..." He shook his head, pursing his lips.

"It was a test, wasn't it?"

In the vanishing residue of light, they all turned to look at d'Artagnan.

"That's the only answer that makes sense," the Gascon shrugged. "They wanted to test us – the four of us – to see if they could take us out. And they succeeded."

The words were all but acrid, dripping with disappointment, anger, and self-reprimand. Before anyone could say anything, d'Artagnan rose, threw his doublet over his shoulder and left.

"I'll go after 'im," Porthos grumbled. He looked down at Aramis. "Try not to die when I'm outside, yeah?" he grumbled, "I'd prefer if you did that when I'm near." Then, thankfully without waiting for a response to his black humour, hurried after d'Artagnan.

"Rest up, gentlemen," the captain said wearily when he was alone with Aramis and Athos. "This has been a difficult trial for all of us. Lemay has left medicine to be taken after the evening meal; I'll have your dinner sent here."

Athos nodded. The captain left, and Aramis drifted off before he even realized his eyes had closed.

* * *

The next time he woke, it was to a loud bang next to his ear; he startled, a curse and an apology following immediately. It was night time.

"Sorry. It's me." Porthos's just-loud-enough whisper became more audible as he approached, "Think I broke the window."

"Hm..." His thoughts saturated heavily with sleep, Aramis raised a trembling hand to wipe his brow, feeling the humidity in the air.

"Why are you awake?"

Porthos was silent for a few moments as he poured water into a cup. "I couldn' sleep."

He helped Aramis to drink without being asked, and the marksman sipped gratefully. He was feeling ridiculously weak.

"Porthos..." he whispered, glancing at his friend as he settled back, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?" Because the 'yeah' was clearly a no. Bare-feet and in a dishevelled nightshirt, Porthos fidgeted slightly, then crossed his arms once again, this time in clear discomfort - something Aramis wasn't used to seeing in his stalwart friend.

"We were almost killed," Porthos grumbled, staring down at the ground.

How strange that statement sounded coming from Porthos! But Aramis had a vague feeling that he understood what Porthos meant.

"Hardly for the first time," he pointed out half-heartedly.

"No... But every other time, I 'ad a chance to defend myself, you know? To fight back. But this..." He shook his head again.

"We didn't see it coming."

They hadn't. The wine was supposed to have come from the queen. It had been too clever, for it would have raised much suspicion had the man claimed the drink had been ordered by the king; but the queen...

They hadn't seen it coming.

This sense of... vulnerability... was almost too new. It was sobering to be reminded of their mortality like this.

"Sorry I woke you up," said Porthos, clearly wanting to close the subject; he glanced around the room, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. "You good to sleep? Need anythin'?"

"I am well, my friend. Thank you. Go back to sleep."

With a nod and a pat on the shoulder, Porthos left him. And with a distinctly uncomfortable feeling settling all over him, Aramis, too tired to dwell on the events of the past few days, fell back into sleep.

* * *

 _Into an abyss._

 _So_ _bottomless and dark, it was consuming him like a living, breathing creature – it was suffocating – how was he supposed to breathe, to subsist_ – he looked around, staring into the pitch dark until his eyes hurt. _Porthos?_ They'd talked just two seconds ago – Porthos –

Was he _awake_?

The mat beneath him – _hard._

The sweat on his brow – wet, sticky.

Aramis pushed himself to a more upright position and forced himself to calm down.

 _Calm._ He was awake. It was only the night.

He lay back down, straining to hear the quiet breathing of Athos and d'Artagnan.

His heart continued to stagger. The throbbing _absence_ of something gaping there - the teasing remnants of some unknown terror – he could not remember. He must have been dreaming, but he could not remember; he didn't know if he truly wanted to recall the dreams but anxiety coursed through his veins like a venom and he did not know how to be rid of it. He shifted on the pillows. He didn't know what to do.

It was too silent.

Perhaps Porthos was still awake – no snoring could be heard - and so _dark –_ why hadn't a candle been left lit? His eyes roamed around the room. _There - a circle of light! And there... standing in the middle of it was Her, tall and graceful, with the_ _Dauphin_ _in her arms. Aramis smiled, starting towards them, but Anne turned her back, keeping the baby out of sight._

 _Frowning, Aramis quickened his steps,_ _confused at her behaviour_ _, but he suddenly realized that he wasn't moving. No matter how fast or how long he walked, the distance was always the same – he wasn't getting any closer. He tried to call out, but his throat produced no sound. He broke into a run: he'd made a promise and he would keep it – he would keep them safe – but the darkness pressed hard on him from all around, closing on him as if he were a most prized prey and Aramis fought it, fought with all his might-_

"Aramis, _awake!_ "

The name left his lips before consciousness fully caught up with awareness - "Athos!"

His heart was beating so loudly he could barely hear himself. Athos's eyes, so close, were full of fear and worry.

"You were dreaming," he stated carefully.

But when had Aramis even closed his eyes - was this still the same night? _Why did the queen keep turning away from him -_ the strange look in the captain's eyes earlier – this _accursed_ darkness _- was_ this the same night -

"Athos – I'm sorry -"

"It's alright. You're alright." _His heart still beat so wildly –_ "You're alright, Aramis." A careful squeeze before Athos's grip on his hands loosened, and slowly retreated, although his friend remained close by.

"You're warm. I don't know if you're still fevered - "

 _No._

Aramis kept a tight grip on Athos's hand until the whirlwind in his mind quietened down, and his heart fought its way back to settling down. Then, with a grateful pat on Athos's knuckles, he let go.

"I'm alright."

It sounded weak and lame even to his own ears.

"Aramis." The green eyes never leaving Aramis's face, Athos pulled the nearby stool and sat down. "What is it that you fear?"

There was that habitual readiness in him, Aramis observed when he looked over exhaustedly. That preparedness against possible danger - the unspoken communication between two soldiers that had served side by side for years. Athos asked in order to be prepared; expected the answer as a comrade and a lieutenant. Not as the friend Aramis had burdened with a treacherous secret.

Should he answer?

Should he indulge; take advantage of the position he'd put his friend in by continuing to confide in him?

Athos's hand circled around his wrist, warm and comforting, and made the decision for him.

"Nothing," he breathed, leaving his head back onto the pillow. He closed his eyes. _Dawn_ , he longed for the dawn. Despair was taking roots within him like a real, physical thing. What if he dreamt again?

What if he _talked_ , spilled this secret while he slept? What if she kept turning away from him _– what if he failed to keep his promise - what if, the next time,_ _poison_ _found its way to -_

Involuntarily, he reached for Athos's hand on his wrist, gripping it tightly.

 _I've already asked too much of you, my friend, but..._ "Will you stay?"

Because all of his defences were gone.

A moment of silence, then Athos settled back, propped his legs up on the bed and made himself comfortable.

"Sleep," he commanded.

And they both slept, and neither of them dreamt.

* * *

 _So, was Rochefort behind this weird attempt on the king, and the testing of the Musketeers? Your guess is as good as mine._

 _I hope this was a satisfactory enough conclusion._


	8. Bedridden

When they found him, he was slumped in a corner, and his eyes were glazed. Relief shot through d'Artagnan as he clipped his pistol on his belt and ran to his friend. Porthos and Aramis were at his back, wielding the torches.

"Athos."

There was no reaction. d'Artagnan's hand fell on his friend's shoulder as he crouched down, but Athos seemed unaware. In the approaching light, sweat glistened on his face, and a hint of saliva at the corner of his mouth.

A questioning glance shot to Aramis, and d'Artagnan scooted aside to make room. Porthos took the second torch as well, remaining upright to provide the light.

"Athos, my friend."

Nothing.

He appeared unharmed.

Yet, as Aramis looked closer at him, he found Athos tightly strung, unnaturally tense.

"What is it - what's wrong with him?"

"You smell that?" asked Porthos, frowning deeply. A horrible sense of foreboding made d'Artagnan back away a bit from Athos, as if it were a physical force.

Shaking his head, Aramis eased himself to his knees, placed two very careful hands on Athos's shoulders and gathered the unresisting man towards himself, peering down at his back.

He flinched, and would have crossed himself if his arms weren't full. d'Artagnan dove in to look at what Aramis had found.

He saw nothing at first, in the wavering dark between Athos and the wall.

 _Weavering._ Upon closer scrutiny, the leather of the uniform seemed bunched up, crinkled, sticking across Athos's back.

Then the smell hit him. _Burned leather._ Burned flesh.

His hand flew to his mouth as he fell back, horrified. Aramis's hand moved up to cradle the back of Athos's head, holding the man to himself in a firm, yet infinitely gentle embrace.

"Let's get him out of here," he said tightly, glancing up at Porthos.

For Athos, found and safe now in their company, was in agony.

* * *

"Can you hear me?" Aramis whispered later, when he was at the back of the cart with Athos's head resting on his lap. They'd laid him on his side, cushioned him with bales of hay and hadn't touched his uniform. One hand tenderly on his friend's head, Aramis could see that Athos's eyes were still open, unseeing.

"If you can, Athos... We'll fix this, _mon cher_. Just hold on."

He was already mentally flipping through his past experiences with burns, encountered mostly after explosions and shell blasts on the battleground. He'd seen his fair share of them. He'd tended some of them. He knew - and dreaded - what he would find beneath the scorched uniform.

But he would have to remove the leather and the shirt from the flesh first, and the echoes of the screams of men from his memories rose unbidden in his ears, and he closed his eyes and his hold on Athos's shoulder tightened.

 _Hold on. I'll fix this._

* * *

His eyes had fallen close when they maneuvered him onto a stretcher and carried him to the infirmary. But he was still conscious, for he remained terribly tense. As they laid him down on his front on a long table layered with blankets, Porthos observed how quickly and shallowly his friend was breathing.

Lemay had been dispatched to, but he'd be found out of town.

"We're here, eh? We got you to the infirmary. Aramis is gonna take care o' you. Hold on." Thus said Porthos as he leaned over to eye-level with his friend, cupping a clammy cheek with a tentative hand.

Aramis wrapped an apron around his waist and approached, d'Artagnan carrying a basin of water to place it on another table nearby.

"The scissors."

Aramis's reluctance and determination, two distinct, yet equally strong emotions, were almost palpable.

Carefully, he cut the doublet around the large area that had melted and stuck to the skin. Then, with the help of d'Artagnan and Porthos, they removed the remains of the garment from Athos's back. Beneath the shirt that was not damaged, they found deep bruises across his shoulders, and down the back of his arms.

As they laid him back down on his front, they saw the tears of pain trickling down his face.

When he remained only in his braes and the dark material across his back like an ugly tattoo pressed into his skin, the three friends stood silently, staring at him for a moment.

"What do we do now?"

"The solution," murmured Aramis wearily.

d'Artagnan and Porthos exchanged a confused look.

"Yes, and what's that?"

"The solution," Aramis shook his head, "a mixture that will help remove the foreign material from his skin. Stay with him," he told the others unnecessarily as he went over to the medical cabinet in the corner to prepare it.

When he was ready, he crouched by Athos's ear before he began.

"I don't know if you can hear me... But you need to be resilient now, my friend. This is going to hurt. I must clean your back before we start treating it." _I know you're already in agony and perhaps this is going to hurt even more, or perhaps, you're already in so much pain that you won't notice this._ Either way, he couldn't make the pain go away - not yet. "Brace yourself." He brushed a hand against the bare skin of his friend's shoulder before shifting to take his stance.

He took a deep breath - careful to avoid looking at either Porthos or d'Artagnan – and began to gently apply the thick, greenish concoction onto the worst of the burns. Athos whimpered, and was immediately shushed by Porthos and d'Artagnan. Aramis was quick and light-handed about it. He knew for a fact that the solution soothed the pain to some degree, and did not agitate it. It was the merest sensation of _touch_ that ignited the figurative fire.

It was the next part that he truly dreaded.

He closed his eyes, and muttered a prayer **-** _Blessed be the Lord my God, who teaches my hands to fight, and my fingers to battle._ He opened his eyes, and lowered the tip of the forceps into the wound.

Then the screaming began.

* * *

They sat with him through the first night, speaking quietly to him, trying to distract him from his agony. They fed him wine, wiped the sweat from his brow, and held his hand, but Athos remained unaware, locked inside a world that consisted of pain, pain, pain and nothing else. Around dawn, when he had been quiet for some time, they maneuvered him onto his side, so that Porthos could wipe his chest down, for he was getting very warm. "Fever?" d'Artagnan had inquired warily. Aramis had shaken his head. Fever he feared, for burns of this kind got infected too easily, but for now, he suspected it was only the effort Athos's body spent to withstand the pain.

"We're here," he murmured quietly as he took his seat at Athos's side once again, leaning over to push the hair back from his friend's eyes. "We're here, _mon cher._ Try to relax."

But the sun brought no hope, and no relief for Athos.

The three friends took turns in the morning to refresh themselves and grab a bite for breakfast. Captain Tréville dropped by before the morning muster and after being briefed by Aramis on the condition of the swordsman, he, too, stood for a few long moments over his lieutenant's bed, one hand placed tenderly on Athos's head as if in benediction, in a sentiment that seemed almost fatherly. Then, without another word, and with nods to each of his three men that conveyed his implicit permission to remain taking care of their fourth, he left to attend the business of running the regiment.

Now they only wished that Athos could sleep.

They wished he could find some rest.

But it wasn't to be - not for some time.

* * *

Around noon, he began to get agitated once more.

His eyes flew open and his breath quickened, coming in harsh pants. He almost rolled onto his back before, with cries of surprise and prevention Aramis and d'Artagnan both rushed to stop him, leaving him staring beggingly at Porthos, as if hoping for him to rescue him from this agony. It made Porthos almost cry.

"No, no, you can't lie on your back, your back's damaged, remember? What am I sayin'," he mumbled, "'course you remember, how can you forget-" _What_ was he sayin'; why was he even speaking? - he felt like an idiot and dutifully avoided Athos's eyes even as he gripped his friend's hand, feeling utterly, stupidly useless. _Useless._

Under their carefully restraining hands Athos groaned, and moaned, and cried, but never spoke.

"Give 'im somethin' to make 'im sleep, Aramis, won't you?"

"I will. I will," Aramis relented easily, getting to his feet quickly and rushing to the cabinet. "We must make him eat a little first - d'Artagnan-" But the Gascon was already at the door before Aramis had finished speaking.

It was a chore and a struggle to calm him and get him to swallow the stew while he lay on his side, and Aramis had to contend with a few spoonfuls instead of the entire bowl. But he didn't mind. He perched on the edge of the bed and held Athos's head up to get him to swallow the pain draught. He'd feared using this before, for it was potent, and he'd hoped the milder medicine he'd given him would work, and Athos would find sleep through his fatigue alone. It was not to be. At the moment, Aramis was only relieved that he could yet do something to help his friend, while he simultaneously feared - _really_ feared- that this, too, might not be enough.

But it turned out to be enough, for after about ten minutes, the struggle began to die down. Athos began to relax, and finally, utterly exhausted, succumbed to sleep.

They all breathed sighs of relief. Porthos had to step out for a while to get himself sorted, and d'Artagnan and Aramis found solace in each other as they sat watching Athos with heavy hearts.

They would see their friend through this.

Of that there was no doubt.

* * *

"Is it... do you think I can see him?"

It was the next day, and d'Artagnan had found Constance standing at the garrison gate, mildly wringing her hands in a rare display of nerves, having been sent by the queen to inquire after Athos's health. She looked almost beggingly d'Artagnan, the weight and the seriousness of their subject having pushed aside the lingering awkwardness between the two.

Hands on his hips, d'Artagnan frowned as he regarded her beautiful, anxious blue eyes. If this weren't the garrison - if Athos were in his own rooms - he wouldn't hesitate, for Constance was... Constance. But here in the garrison, even though she was well-known to most of the men, the impertinence of Madame Bonacieux's visit to an ill, bed-ridden man within the barracks rooms, would be difficult to ignore.

 _He_ wouldn't care- he _didn't_. But Athos, the man made of honour, _would_ , in Constance's name; and Constance, just last week, had made it perfectly clear that _she_ certainly cared. Reputation before love; conformity before happiness - she'd made her choices clear. His disappointment in her was still scorching.

"I know it's... silly of me to ask," said Constance, bringing him back, waving a hand in the air and trying to smile, "it's just... I'd have really liked to see him."

"Come in the evening," said d'Artagnan, dropping his hands from their perch.

"What?"

"Come after dark. I'll get you in- most of the men won't be around. The Musketeers are men of honour, Constance. They won't start gossip - especially not about Athos. They have too much respect for him for that." Perhaps Athos would protest, but he'd have little say in the matter after the deed was done.

"Well, that's clever and all, d'Artagnan," said Constance with the beginning of a smile, "but wouldn't Athos be asleep?"

"Does it matter?" d'Artagnan countered, shrugging, "You said you wanted to see him. He's not much in the mood for conversation, anyway," he sighed.

"To be fair, he rarely is," Constance remarked, the playful smile making a stronger effort to break through. d'Artagnan, despite himself, chuckled slightly.

"Just... tell him I'm thinking of him, will you? And I'll come. I'll come visit another day, _in daylight_ , when he's feeling better."

Respectful, if with a touch of lingering bitterness, of her decision, d'Artagnan acquiesced with a nod.

"Good day, Constance."

"Good day, d'Artagnan."

He stood watching until she rounded the corner and disappeared in the afternoon crowd.

* * *

"Aramis."

"Athos?"

Late in the evening, Aramis, alone in the infirmary with Athos, rushed towards the bedside, sinking down to his friend's eye-level. Athos was flushed, the fever that had spiked still haven't had died down. "Water?" he guessed.

A weak nod of the head.

Aramis helped him - a troublesome task as Athos remained lying on his front with his head turned to the side, a position that made it difficult to properly raise his head to partake of drink. And inevitably, some of the water spilled down onto the pillow.

Athos screwed his eyes shut. Aramis reached for a towel to wipe his friend's mouth and the moisture from the pillow, but Athos's hand rose unexpectedly, and grabbed Aramis's wrist to stop him with surprising strength. Frowning, Aramis looked down.

Athos was glaring at him, a burning, bright glare from the eyes of a man who breathed in shallow pants and grimaced from relentless, prolonged pain.

He needed _sustenance._ He would not stand to be coddled. Indeed, the look in Athos's eyes was not one for the faint-hearted.

It did not work on Aramis.

"Let me help," the marksman said quietly instead, holding Athos's gaze. No judgement, no fussing, no pity - only a masterful evenness of tone that made it impossible to raise an argument against. He said nothing more; only waited.

Several moments passed, then, either out of acceptance **,** or because he lacked the strength to maintain that hold, Athos's hand loosened its grip, and his eyes fell close.

Aramis was careful to keep his peace as he rose, and silently returned to his seat to continue his vigil.

* * *

"Porthos."

"Yea?"

Athos hesitated, a struggle passing through him, then he lowered his eyes.

"Will you help me turn on my side?"

"Which side?" asked Porthos, rising.

"Left."

The mission accomplished, Porthos looked over him assessingly. "Better?"

"Better," Athos nodded, "Thank you." The words were clipped; him, closed off - the Comte de la Fére. Porthos just laughed.

"You're welcome. Drink?"

The look he received this time was mild, relenting, perhaps even apologetic.

Porthos only grinned, and went to pour the wine.

* * *

"How's the pain?"

"More... manageable," Athos replied through gritted teeth. He'd sat up on the bed and d'Artagnan was helping him to change into a clean shirt.

"You mean it hurts like hell," d'Artagnan muttered before picking up the shirtsleeve. "Can you raise your arm a bit or - no, it's alright - I'll just - " The exercise left Athos panting, hunched over and supported by d'Artagnan on the bed, his eyes screwed shut. Moving his arms, trying to turn himself on the bed, anything that put a strain on his arms and back were sheer agony.

"Breathe," d'Artagnan reminded him quietly, "Breathe, Athos."

He waited until his friend gathered himself, and when he received a soft touch on his arm to indicate he was ready, he helped Athos to carefully turn and lie back down on his side.

He hated seeing Athos like this. He hated seeing him in this much pain, though, as was his wont, Athos bore it all stoically. But d'Artagnan longed to see his friend back to his own self, healthy and up on his feet.

Wordlessly, and perhaps a bit dejectedly, he dunked a cloth into a full basin, wrung it out and ran it gently over Athos's face. Breathing very carefully, Athos turned his head slightly to lean into the touch.

In a few minutes, he was once again asleep.

* * *

It took nearly two weeks for the agony to recede to truly manageable levels, and Athos began to remain sitting up more, although even that was a bit of a chore. The bruises across his back and arms, the source of a deep, heavy ache that was a steady undercurrent to the pain of his burns, began to fade, and as long as he was careful to not twist his torso, he could push himself up and shift on the bed. When he wanted to sit, they helped him out of the bed and into a chair that he straddled, leaning forward over the hard back. It was still more days before he could lean his back against some very soft cushions -he'd been surprised, suspicious, and terribly appreciative of them by turns-, or lie on it like a normal person again. He did not tell Aramis of the new aches he'd acquired in his neck and shoulders for constantly having to lie on his sides.

Constance came on the day he'd took his sword in his hand for the first time since that fateful day, when he was alone in the infirmary, and tried, carefully, to stretch his arm, testing himself. The pain nearly drove him to his knees and he all but dropped the sword; Porthos, having escorted Constance to the infirmary, found him on the floor by the bed, trying to get back to his feet. Though his first instinct was to run in to help, Porthos checked himself, and instead, remained careful to try and block Constance's view from the door until Athos rose.

Then he cleared his throat, and received a glare for his effort.

"You got a visitor," he announced only, and with a sympathetic glance at Madame Bonacieux, withdrew.

"Constance."

She smiled brightly, but with a hint of hesitation in her step as she walked in through the door. Athos seemed surprised to see her.

"Oh, don't tell me d'Artagnan forgot to mention I would visit," said she, in exasperation and disbelief.

Athos blinked. Perhaps d'Artagnan indeed had mentioned such a thing, though he did not recall. He shook his head.

"Well. It's... good to see you on your feet," said Constance rather awkwardly, clutching a small basket in her hand, glancing from side to side. Athos was still standing next to the bed, sword in one hand, circles under his eyes and a crease upon his brow. He was staring as if he couldn't fathom why she was here, but his glance must be particularly intense, for Constance, for a moment, faltered.

"Well, I'll just - I'll leave this here - I'd wanted to see how you were doing, you know, it's been a while and-"

"Constance." He stopped her quietly, and when she looked up, his expression had softened, and morphed into one of kindness - the face that she always associated with Athos, for it was with this face of his that she had first met, over three years ago. Relieved, she smiled.

"It's kind of you to come. Sit." He showed her to the only chair in the room and she took it pleasantly, waiting for him to sit as well. But Athos remained where he was, though, this time, _he_ seemed awkward, remaining on his feet while she sat.

He glanced at the half-made bed. Constance trailed his eyes.

"Won't you sit?" she inquired, raising pretty eyebrows. Athos seemed hesitant. Constance rolled her eyes and grinned a bit. "Come on, it's hardly proper for you to stand like that when I'm sat. Sit down." She gestured towards the bed with her head. A smile of his own twitching his lips, Athos relented; left the sword leaning against the wall, carefully folded one leg under him and sat, settling against the pillows. Satisfied, Constance peered at him intently.

"You look well."

Athos raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"For a man who's been abed for over two weeks you really _do_ look well," said Constance solemnly. "I'm glad, Athos. We've been.. frightened. The queen and I."

"Thank you," Athos returned, before Constance giggled unexpectedly, almost girlishly, and clapped a hand to her mouth.

" _The queen and I_ \- I can't believe I just said that. It's been over two months since I moved to the palace but it's still so... _weird._ "

"She could not have found a better companion," returned Athos, smile solidifying as he looked at her, "d'Artagnan has done Her Majesty a great service by recommending you to her."

Constance actually blushed.

Athos always had this effect on her. His approval fluttered her heart, warmed her to her core - ever since they'd first met, he'd always reminded him of Pascal, her eldest brother, who, some years ago, had passed. Athos looked nothing like Pascal: he had been very tall, and very lean, with dark hair and the same blue eyes with Constance that they had taken from their father. Pascal was a lively man who loved a good brawl, a good laugh, a good life, and got in and out of trouble with terrifying skill. He would have made a terrific Musketeer. And he was kind. He was always so, so kind and Constance still ached when she thought of her brother.

This look in Athos's eyes - and nothing else about him - reminded him of Pascal, and Constance loved it.

But then, around those eyes she noticed how pale Athos was, how there seemed to be darker shades in the shallows of his face since she'd last seen him, and some invisible muscle drawn tight on his brow by an underlying pain, and decided quickly that she should leave him to rest.

Even if they'd shared merely a few sentences since sitting down.

"Well, I better get going," she said, rising, before quickly warning him, " _don't_ get up, Athos; I'm no duchess and you're no _comte_ \- well, not anymore, from what I gather. I brought pastries," she grinned, indicating the basket she'd left on the table, covered with a red cloth, "Apple pies. Just don't let d'Artagnan and Porthos get to them - I already left a basket for them. This is yours alone. Honestly, sometimes I imagine those two finding their way into the queen's kitchens and... well, let's hope that never happens." She grinned again, and found Athos smiling broadly, eyes twinkling in amusement at her prattling on.

"Feel better," she said softly.

"Thank you, Madame," returned Athos politely.

And she left with a light step, and left him with a warmer heart.

* * *

 _ **Notes:**_ _I imagine Athos has some serious second-degree burns, for he'd be beyond pain if they were any worse, but beside that, whether there's any medical inconsistency in there, I remain unaware. Kindly ignore them if you find any - I take refuge in fanfiction to escape from research at most times, not to do more of it. :)_


	9. Friendly Fire

_This is the first of another two- or three-parter. (Thank you, **Uia,** for your lovely comments, by the way.:)_

 _(Also, sorry I can't be more prolific with this thing - I'm in the deep end of my dissertation and I still very much fear my advisor's wrath. I'll keep trying to post a new chapter each week. Thanks for reading.)_

* * *

Pain.

Blinding, sickening pain - a wave of nausea pushing over him, his own groan in his ears and his heartbeat a thunder in his chest- _clap-clap-clap._ The feel of wet, cold dirt on his cheek; a roar, far away and muffled -

"Aramis!"

He couldn't help it. As he was wrenched upright by the shoulders, he had no time nor opportunity to reclaim his wits - he vomited.

On all fours and the support gone, he blinked and blinked to get his bearings, to clear the silver sparks and force his vision to settle. Movement to his right - a blurred shape that could only be Athos - grabbing the musket that had fallen from his hand, rolling over and sinking to his knees in one fluid motion to take aim. Comprehension, however, was slow; his mind lagged behind in catching up - a dead body a few feet to his left, another one further away - a growl of frustration from Athos made him turn, but he regretted it immediately as the pain and nausea flared again.

"I can't see. I can't make him out..." Athos murmured, one eye closed in thick concentration as he leaned over the barrel. The situation down in the courtyard had clearly gotten out of hand - this cursed, steady sheet of rain wasn't helping his vision - D'artagnan, alone and unarmed in the prison yard among a crowd of violent offenders - Porthos, down on the ground, wouldn't get to him in time. They were too far away - Athos didn't have Aramis's eyes – Guerin, their initial target, was towering over d'Artagnan who was on the ground, surrounded by a human wall of jeering, laughing, screeching men. They'd run out of time. Even as his breath hitched and his finger tightened spasmodically around the trigger, Athos knew that he couldn't take the shot.

He stole a desperate glance at Aramis - _he_ was supposed to make this shot!- his look was one of plea, though it went lost in the daze that Aramis couldn't sake off - but Athos's eyes suddenly widened as his gaze shifted and he dropped the musket to leap to his feet, drawing his sword in a flash and that's when Aramis finally realized that something _else_ was wrong.

"What-"

Something _slammed_ into him from behind, sending him sprawling back to the leaf-littered ground. Like he was a mere obstacle in the way he was pushed aside, a massive shape stepping _over_ him - another roar was heard, crude and belligerent- he looked up just in time to see a mountain of a man bearing down on Athos, his friend stumbling back even as he swung his blade in the last moment to block a brutal strike. Throat burning, head pulsing, stomach churning Aramis fumbled around for his dagger - _clap-clap-clap_ – _his heart or the thunders rolling overhead?_ \- _merde!_ his hands weren't co-operating - he couldn't _reach_ the dagger let alone draw it - _sit upright!_ \- _sit upright first -_

" _Aramis!_ "

Imploring - desperate - Athos brought his sword to up block another blow, his arm shaking from the force it even as he kept backing away, staggering - "Take the shot! Take the shot - d'Artagnan-" His back hit the trunk of a tree and his words were cut as he ducked and dove low to avoid another zealous thrust.

 _Take the shot!_

Nausea be damned - Aramis grabbed the musket and fell into position again, drawing a furiously shaking hand against his eyes to clear the moisture of blood and rain combined. _Take the shot -_ it was chaos down in the courtyard - that was just about all his crazy vision could discern.

 _Breathe._

Breathe.

 _Block out all voice, all pain, to concentrate on stilling the hands and the vision_. No sound reached them where they were, but Aramis could just _hear_ the cacophony in his mind: the anger brewing, simmering, boiling as what had started out as a single fight flowed and rushed like a river and took a mad turn to become a full-blown riot. He could distinguish _men_ from groups now. Chaos as the guards rushed in and weapons were drawn, confusion and violence erupting all around - _d'Artagnan_ \- he needed to find d'Artagnan.

A desperate sound from Athos almost distracted him but he refused to be diverted. He swallowed against his dry mouth as he carefully, _painfully_ scanned the crowd. _There!_ \- there the Gascon was - tall and skinny and dark hair! – _but.._ Aramis swallowed again, blinking furiously - there was no margin of error here - _was_ that d'Artagnan?

His vision still shifted, gyrating around the edges in a maddening dance - _take the shot!_ \- _how?_ \- _nothing_ about him was steady -

Another sharp cry from Athos - a body hitting the ground and a growl - Aramis _refused_ the distraction, again - down below, _there! -_ another man that could _just_ be d'Artagnan - tall and skinny and dark hair and in trouble -

"Aramis -" _Quiet -_

"Aramis, take the - " _Strangled and pained-_

Aramis took the shot.


	10. Serious illness (I)

He could remember precisely the last time he had begged.

He'd begged God to wake up from what he'd hoped was a nightmare.

He'd been refused.

Now he is begging again, years and a different life later, in blissful forgetfulness of the time he'd been denied, because begging feels like the only course of action that is left. Begging, begging unconsciously, begging silently, begging relentlessly, _please, please,_ one more breath - _please_ , let me -

"Easy - easy, come 'ere. Come 'ere. Rest 'ere now. Rest a bit like this, there you go.."

 _Please.._ _please_ -

"There.. there, stay like that.. Don' move, hm?"

The rumble and the rubbing hand on his back. One breath, easier, a second breath.. easier..

"Good. Good."

He shivered, pressing his forehead harder against Porthos's shoulder.

A breath cut short on Porthos's own chest as Aramis beat him to pulling the blanket up over Athos's hunched back. Freezing - he was freezing and he'd folded his arms around himself and sweat and tears had long mixed together and he pressed his face against Porthos's solid chest once more, seeking, searching, scared beyond reason and age and experience and anything else that this fragile balance, this delicate moment of reprieve will be gone, and he'll be tossed right back into the storm, helpless as a ragdoll between the jaws of a rabid dog.

He shivered again, violently, and Porthos's arms tightened around him.

He moaned, low and long.

A cough.

A trigger.

 _Here it comes again._

"No- don't tense up now - you're doin' good, real good, brother.. Easy now -"

"Porth-"

No breath.

No breath-

 _Porth-!_

Let this end.

 _Please-_

 _Please, God, let this end._

/

"Is this it? Is there really nothing else to be done?"

" ... "

"You cannot possibly be telling me that we'll just sit here and watch until he - until he dies!"

"d'Artagnan-"

"There has to be something! There has to be something to help him - if nothing else, to - to ease this! To ease-"

\- his suffering.

 _Suffering?_

His _passing._

Athos is dying.

He'd been dying before their very eyes for the last two weeks.

He is dying.

There's nothing to be done?

No.

 _No._

 _All that can be done has and is being done._

There is nothing else.

/

"Give him the laudanum."

"I don't dare -"

"Give it to him. Give it to him."

"You don't understand. It will -"

"It will help. It will give him relief. It will give him some reprieve from this - please, Aramis -"

"Don't you _dare_ beg me! _Don't_ you dare. Is this for him or for us, hm? Who do you really want this for, did you ever stop to think?"

"Aramis -"

"I may as well speed this up. I may as well contribute to my friend's death - is this really what you want?"

"No. No, I'm sorry -"

"Don't you _dare_ force me. There are things beyond forgiving on this earth, d'Artagnan. _Don't_ you dare force my hand."

/

 _"We're still 'ere."_

 _"We all are."_

He knows.

He still feels the touch of their hands.

Feels them on his forehead, pushing his hair back, feeling his fever, with never-diminishing hope.

Feels them on his face, holding his head so he can try to sip whatever they give him.

On his body, holding him, holding him this way and that way as he twists and jerks and arches with each relentless, cruel bout; holding him and trying to find which way to keep him that will give him a moment of relief, one easier breath, one full draw of air through the closed, infected throat, down into the drowning, starved lungs. A single inhalation has become the highest mountain to climb. A single whiff of freely taken air - they take it as one when Athos is granted one, and they hold all of their own for the rest of the time.

All for one.

/

Athos is all but gone.

d'Artagnan... all but gone.

Is he the one that is feeling dead inside or is this the death that has been stalking the corners of this room for the past three weeks, sneaking its way steadily into the young Musketeer's soul, sinking its claws, taking tasting bites, settling down for that unfathomable cavity that will be left behind once Athos is truly gone?

He is watching, silent and alone from a corner of the room. A rare moment of being left alone.

Cold.

He is cold, cold from the very core of his soul, stiff and tired and empty in a way he recalls from a time long ago. This feeling of standing upon a brink, of something he does not know. There will be a break between the before and the after and things will, soon, never be the same as they are now. He'd only been fourteen when he'd first felt this. Fourteen when he'd crouched in the corner of his parents' bedroom and watched his mother die. This is not how the death of his father had felt like.

That had been different.

This, too, is different.

 _Maman_ -

Snapping his eyes close, he draws two fingers onto them to rub away the images - the image of her mother on that last day, her sunken cheeks, her long, disarrayed hair, her chapped, quivering lips. He shakes his head, angry at the unexpected rise of these memories - he doesn't want to see this. Like uttering a curse he drops his hand sharply and looks up.

Athos.

Athos, dying.

 _Maman_ had been a brunette. Beautiful, tanned skin; she'd wear her raven hair in long braids, and strands would escape and she would swipe them back with her forearm while she'd knead the dough. The white of the flour and the black of her hair would make a bright, mischievous pair and in d'Artagnan's young, eager mind, the two had subconsciously come to symbolize siblings. Siblings like the older sister he could barely remember but for a laughter of delight in his ears, or the baby that soon would have come, the one to whom he would have been the best big brother. _Flour on maman's jaw_. The strand of hair curling behind her ear and the glint in her eye as she'd laughed and told him to go fetch his father - she'd gotten so big she couldn't get up from the ground without help. He'd smirk, noticing how _maman_ would want _father's_ help now, not his.

 _Athos.._

What are these memories now - why is he recalling _maman_ now?

He's walked to the bed somehow and taken hold of both of Athos's arms. The wrists in his grasp are so thin, they require special care to not accidentally snap. "Here, lean on me," he says, pulling the struggling man half-awkwardly to his lap. The words are a formality. Holding Athos this way or that way makes not the slightest difference to him now; d'Artagnan swallows hard, very hard, to push down the waves of anger rising even as he holds Athos up, the due gentleness all gone. _Why is this happening?_

 _Why_ has this happened; why is he forced to just _be_ here, to watch, utterly unable to help? This inability to act is like a living creature sneaking its way through his insides, searing him and branding him- _why,_ why has this happened, _why?_ Uncaring for the tears rushing down his face he sniffs and twists the man in his arms none-too-gently in an effort to get him to look up. _Athos -_ he needs to see Athos. Where is he? _This_ isn't him - this wasted body he's holding, this sack of bones wrapped in sickly-translucent skin; no, he needs to _see_ Athos, to ask him to come back, to make sure he's still here - "Athos. Athos - _where_ _are you_ ," he whispers, pleadingly, desperately, shaking the sick man as though he's deliberately hiding Athos, "Athos-"

"D'Artagnan?"

He looks up, finds Aramis's inquiring gaze too close and only then realizes that he's holding Athos in a way that that cannot possibly be restful for the ailing man. The green eyes are blown wild, utterly confused, terrified. Horrified, d'Artagnan abruptly lets go. He rises, only to have Porthos quickly take over, and leaves the room, without looking back.


	11. Serious illness (II)

_Thank you to the guest reviewers to whom I can't directly reply - I appreciate your comments!_

* * *

Is it prayers answered?

Is it divine pity, bestowed upon an unchanging scene of collective misery?

Or is it forgiveness?

The tide takes its time to turn, so long, so very long, none of them will be able to recall a point where breathing has become easier again, either for Athos, or for them all. All they'll be able to say is that Athos did not die after all.

They didn't discover a new remedy that helped ease his cough.

They didn't recite new prayers that the Lord has never heard before.

They sat, and waited, and Athos did not die.

And that was all.

/

"Here, just a couple more. It's nearly finished."

"What have you done?"

Porthos's brow creased as he retreated the cup from Athos's lips and looked at him in puzzlement. Perhaps he'd caught the breathy whispers wrong.

"What... have you done?"

"I don' understand. What do you mean what have I done?"

"Was it... Aramis?" An indignant cough kicked hard at the precious breath he'd found.

"Easy - don't tire yourself out, eh? There'll be time to talk."

"I want.. to know."

The fever wasn't any worse. In fact, Athos was only a bit warm; Porthos wouldn't even say he was fevered anymore. Confusion, however, seemed to linger; out of habit, he reached aside to wring out a cloth and put it to Athos's forehead. He was too used to the action now, to the sensation, to the effect - and its lack there-of. He watched closely as the green eyes, seeming twice their natural size within the shrunken, wilted face, moved restlessly from side to side. He grabbed Athos's fingers to get his attention and leaned in close.

"What is it, brother? What is it that you wanna know?"

"Who saved me."

"Who saved you? We..."

Who had saved him?

Porthos shook his head.

"God spared you, Athos. Thank God, He spared you to us."

"Why would he?"

"I don' know, brother. I don' know, but I'm grateful He did. I'm grateful."

"Why would he..."

"Ssh.. don' worry 'bout it now.. There'll be time later, when you're better. Rest."

"Rest..."

"Aye. It's easier now, hm? Easier than before? You're better now."

"Hmm-" Affirmation turned into a moan, the face hidden behind a thin arm in a re-discovered attempt at self-preservation, and Porthos sighed, letting go of Athos - just letting go.

He'd been spared.

He would stay.

 _He would stay._

Porthos could now let his brother's hands go.

/

The sharp cry from the bed did not elicit the sudden response from Aramis as it would have done just a week ago. They had gotten used to them - all of them had gotten used to them.

Still, he halted at the door, one hand on the handle, to look over his shoulder at Athos's twisted form, face caught in a grimace, breath arrested in the grip of pain, hands fisted around the sheets as he fought to regain control. Frowning, Aramis walked to him and reached out to help him lie back down.

 _Easy. Slow breaths._

He would have uttered these words, except he knew they would spark unnecessary ire. Biting his lip, he reached for his friend's shoulders to -

Athos lashed at him with a growl, only for it to be cut short when his elbow buckled beneath him and he fell, awkwardly, flat on his face on the mattress.

Aramis took a deliberate step back, almost reverently, allowing him space.

Athos groaned.

Groaned and swallowed over and over, and Aramis averted his gaze so he could pretend not to have seen the frustrated tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

He had pulled muscles in his abdomen from weeks of violent coughing. He needed several pillows beneath his head so he could hope to be granted some ease from the incessant bouts. He ached. His entire body ached without a moment's pause and comfort became a distant dream; comfort, lack of pain, the state of being he'd thought was granted to all. He longed for it and he cursed all who had it when he could not - life - what right did _life_ had to go on when he was laid aside-

 _How strange._

How _so_ very _strange_ to observe, to witness in himself this unfamiliar, this utterly foreign will to survive, to live, to continue being a part of life.

Childish.

His frustration, his anger, his unjust reactions ever since that indeterminable point where he'd begun to feel better - if only he had the energy, he'd be fascinated.

"Drink the cinquefoil when you can. It helps."

Retreating footsteps, and he was left alone again.

/

Afterwards, they began to come less and less. Athos appreciated it as much as he'd appreciated their constant presence during the past few weeks; somehow, at some point, their very state of being - the straight lines of Porthos's posture when he'd sit on that low stool, the spring in d'Artagnan's step as he'd move about the room, the deliberate control, that calculated cool of Aramis's demeanour - they had all begun to rub on his nerves. He did not want to be unjust to them. They only deserved much more than he could ever give in gratitude.

They welcomed him with beaming smiles and gentle embraces when he finally fostered the strength one morning to don his uniform and walk from his rooms in _Rue Férou_ to the garrison in _Vieux-Colombier_. He'd been winded; he'd slowed his walk with each step that brought him closer to the arched gate in an attempt to catch his breath and not appear as weak and shaky as he felt. He'd managed it. When he walked in through the courtyard after an entire month's absence, he was several shades too pale and one too many sizes down, but Musketeers leapt to their feet and ran to greet him from all around, taking turns in shaking his hand, patting him on the back, inquiring after his health, eager to fill him in on all that had transpired since he'd been laid down.

"Oi - enough," Porthos growled, stepping deliberately beside Athos to prevent yet another well-wisher from harassing him, "'e's not goin' anywhere. Let 'im breathe, alrigh'?"

 _Let him breathe._

The phrase caught him by surprise. Without knowing what he was doing, he closed his eyes, and drew a large inhale.

It ended on a slight hitch, but it was nothing compared to what he had suffered such a short while ago.

"Alrigh'?"

He opened his eyes and nodded, finding himself suddenly unable to meet Porthos's concern. His throat closed. He sneaked his hand over Porthos's wrist and squeezed, helpless to prevent the impertinent rush of wetness to his eyes; Porthos pulled him by the scruff of his neck and held him, tight, for a few long seconds, just until his edges stopped quivering and he felt grounded again.

d'Artagnan and Aramis were grinning like idiots.

Athos gave Porthos a light shove, rolling his eyes, then gruffly reached to fist a hand around the leather of d'Artagnan's uniform and pulled the boy to himself, only to hold him close for a moment and plant a kiss to the side of his head.

The very picture of composure he was again; Athos, as he always was. Stoic in expression, economical in movement - except, this time, for the emotion he deliberately displayed. The emotion he _tried_ to relay, only for the eyes and the hearts of these three men, even as he knew he could never fully express-

\- but somehow, miraculously, they seemed to understand, and it seemed to be enough.

He let go of d'Artagnan and looked into Aramis's eyes.

"Thank you," he said quietly, brimming with gratitude, and much love.

Words mattered to Aramis.

And he mattered to Athos.

The marksman spoke equally gravely. "You're welcome."

"If you gentlemen are all quite done."

Laughter as the lingering crowd parted and Captain Tréville surged forward, eyes sparkling, one hand reached out. "Athos."

"Captain." He grasped the offered hand and Tréville shook it firmly.

"It's good to have you back."

A pat on the arm, a sharp, searching look from top to toe; a curl of the lips that indicated very clearly what he thought of what he'd seen, then, with a twirl on his heel and a voice that echoed all the way to the rooftops, he barked: "Right! Mount-up was five minutes ago! What are you waiting for - personal invitations? To your posts - _now!_ "

Big grins and rolling eyes and salutations to the four Inseperables as Musketeers departed to do as they were told.

 _Life._

It had all the right to go on without Athos. But for the first time in years, _he_ felt that _he_ did not want to be without it.

He sat on their bench in the shade, perfectly content, and spent the morning watching his brothers spar.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading!_


	12. (I) Showdown

**(I) Showdown**

They're on the run.

There are simply too many of them to make a stand; what's more, they've brought pistols to a sword-fight.

And they're shooting.

There's nowhere to take cover, they can only run and run and hope the men will keep missing until they're out of range. Out in the open. They're made of legs -solid, thumping, feet flying off the ground- and hearts - no longer in the chest, but the conqueror of their whole, beating, pulsing, thumping on war drums - __duck__ \- veer to the side - shoot back - __how__ many pistols have they brought?!

They need cover.

They need the cavalry. There's only the two of them and no one knows they're here. Every gasped, tearing breath may be their last.

Legs, hearts, the pitch-black rectangle towards which they run, never giving way to light, never coming closer, and nothing else.

Exploding pistol shots, one after another.

A burst of sparks as a ball struck the wall just to side, chips flying off as another mimicked it on the other side.

Between one step and the next, without warning, Athos is suddenly not where he was.

No longer running for his life in a long, narrow, endless corridor; no longer the flame of the torches drag that dazzling light across the edges of his sight - he's somewhere else. He is at the garrison, stepping calmly into the night, under a gentle rain that's washing off the dirt on the cobblestones.

It is quiet, and still.

The soothing, steady hush of rain is all peace and serenity.

Taking a breath, Athos closes his eyes, and tips his head skywards.

He doesn't feel the rain.

He opens his eyes and looks down with a frown: his hat is catching the drops and they slide off over the leather of his gloves. That, in itself, is __right__ , but it is wrong too- he __should__ feel the rain but-

" _ _AH!__ "

The cry ripped from Aramis's mouth yanks Athos back to where he was, shattering the illusion as if it's made of glass. Aramis stumbles, arms flailing to catch his balance but it's no use and goes down, hard.

"ARAMIS!"

"HOLD!"

Another shot - __feet pattering__ \- they're almost on to them-

Skidding to a halt on the ground Athos swerves around, turns and sprints the distance he's carried off to - __bullets raining towards his face - he should feel them but he does not -__ he grabs Aramis under the arms and drags him even though there's __still__ nowhere to hide -

They're caught.

The sound of blades drawn echo shrilly on the walls.

Letting go of Aramis, Athos turns around, his own sword raised, gripped in both hands, ready to face them all. Aramis is unmoving on the ground, the breath forced out of him by a shot to his back not having yet returned.

But pistols are spent now.

 _ _Now__ let them come.


	13. (II) No, stop!

_There's a short passage posted on AO3 (Chapter 13) that continues directly from where the previous chapter was left, with Aramis shot and Athos facing off their assailants. It didn't stylistically fit this continuation so I didn't post or attach it here, so if you'd like to read it, it can be found in 'Whumptober' over at AO3._

 _And a warning, just in case: this one is filled with whump._

* * *

 **(II) "No, stop!"**

 _Shadows._

 _Blacks and oranges - a slick wetness glinting across - and rasping breaths - echoing in the corridor._

A whisper: half a murmur, half a call: "Aramis."

 _Slumped against a wall, Athos is bleeding in three different places, but doesn't notice or understand that at all._

"Ath-os..."

 _And Aramis is still on the ground, right where he fell when the shot first struck him down, unable to even turn around._

"I'm here." _(Why does Athos's_ t _ongue feel so heavy in his mouth?)_ "Let me.. let me see."

"Ath's - _mmgh_ -"

"Sshh."

The shadows swirl.

( _The blackness is overwhelming. There's a roaring heartbeat in the dark when he feels the warmth of Aramis's body nearby, and the odd sensation that time may have lapsed somehow. Not much: Aramis is still agonized._ ) "I'm here," he says quietly, "Be still."

There are tremors, ( _coursing through his limbs, his whole being, up from his brow down to his chest and arms and legs_ ) _-_ and motion, soft, almost soothing. Reminiscent of swaying but it is not; like floating weightlessly on the waves, but it is not.

 _Aramis._

Comprehension takes its time to reach Athos: they are breathing, the two of them _._ Breathing _together:_ up - down - gasp - stutter - up.. down.. because Athos is slumped over Aramis and their confused, pained breaths are synchronized. Impossibility is non-existent.

A wet, sickening sound from Aramis jolts Athos into trying to push up, to straighten, to shake himself out of this daze - _wake up -_

"Ath's - get it - _Ath's_ -" (Aramis's voice is muffled but the pain is sharp, edges of fragmented glass.)

"I'm here." Weak and calm, Athos straightens himself with effort (a discovery of a stab wound in his arm goes unacknowledged), and pauses, looking over his friend. Aramis is shaking, gasping, reeling, lying on his front and unable to turn his neck to look up - he's panicking- Athos instinctively lays a hand his shoulder, very softly, to ground him.

"Calm. I'm here." (Why is he saying this?)

 _(Athos feels parched. Everything's muddled, smothered somehow; thoughts disappeared, he watches shadows swirl on Aramis's doublet, leading a dizzying, sicking waltz. A thin, wet line glints across Aramis's back: he vaguely thinks he must locate the source, but right now, any thought feels like trying to grasp at ghosts_.)

A pain-filled cry from the marksman snaps Athos back from that murky brown. He blinks; frowns, (everything's clearer as if it's never been otherwise) and carefully leaves his other hand on Aramis's back, beginning his search for the little round hole. It is found quickly: just to the right of center on the upper back, a tiny pitch-black smudge on the lighter leather.

"Ath'-os - Athos, you must-" (Aramis is bordering on panic, straining to turn his head and catch Athos's eye) " _Get it out_ \- _Athos_ , get it out-"

"Easy. Easy, be still. I'll take care of it." ( _Very weak and very calm - his tone is on its own._ ) Looking around searchingly for a moment, Athos pulls Aramis's dagger from his hip and cuts a rough line through the doublet from hem to collar. The dagger falls from his hand when it's done, but the wound is exposed now, and Aramis's shirt is soaked through.

"I can't - Athos - I c'-" _He's close to sobbing-_

"Ssh.. It's alright." _(What is Athos to do?)_ "I'm here." _(Why does he keep saying this?)_ Athos sits back down, one leg absent-mindedly stretched to the side, feeling stupified.

" _Ath's_ -" _a delirious rasp_ "get it -" _a sharp moan_ " - out - get it _OUT...!_ "

"Yes.. alright.." Blinking as if in a daze, moving as if with someone else's limbs, Athos takes up the dagger and leans over again. "I'll get this out. Be still."

" _Jee-sus- just_ \- "

"Aramis, you _must_ be still. Do you understand?"

To his credit, the marksman _tries_ to heed the command. Murmuring a final warning, _(as if someone else is speaking)_ , Athos slips the tip of the blade into the wound, and Aramis _trashes -_ Athos throws his weight over his friend's back, trying to keep him still even as he digs around for the ball (Aramis is _screaming -_ what is Athos doing) _-_ and blood oozes out, in miniature rivulets like lava from a volcano's mouth (Aramis is shaking, breath trapped inside his lungs) - ( _Athos_ is shaking - are their tremors, too, synchronized? ) He doesn't notice, lost in his own struggle, when Aramis reaches his breaking point - with an animalistic scream Aramis _bucks_ and even as his grip slips, Athos feels the tip of the blade pushing _in_ when Aramis's body thrusts up - he yanks the blade out, dropping it with a clatter and falls on his back, horrified.

Shock last for only a moment.

He throws himself over Aramis, trying to hold him down so he wouldn't injure himself further - "DAMN it Aramis - STOP!" - but the marksman is driven out of his mind and tries to roll to his side, causing _Athos_ to cry out when he falls on a wounded leg - "Stop - STOP -!" And then, slowly, finally, the trashing stops. Athos pulls Aramis to lie on his front again and himself falls back, breathing hard.

 _Time.._

 _It is lost again._

 _Pain: sizzling, biting, burning in several spots - exhaustion.. and silence, smothering all sound._

 _There_ is _sound_.

 _A voice._

 _Aramis._

Aramis.

 _/_

Aramis is finally still.

He is still conscious, by some unkind miracle; but the pain must be at new heights because he is still making _unbearable_ sounds.

"Aramis," Athos calls roughly.

Nothing.

"Aramis, speak to me. Don't you faint now."

".. _mmgh_.."

"Stay with me."

"Athos..." - _a heart-breaking attempt at suppressing a sob_ \- "you _must_ get this out."

"I can't do that with you trashing like a god-damn fish!"

"You can't - stop -"

" - _cutting_ you like a fish?" Athos suggests mercilessly. Aramis's hand twitches as if to reach for him and Athos immediately seizes it in his own.

 _Damn you, Aramis - I canNOT do this!_

 _I can't - stand this, Athos - I won't last much longer if you don't get the ball out._

 _. . ._

 _Very well._

It is not as if there's ever been a choice.

/

Athos gave Aramis's hand a squeeze before letting go and picking up the dagger again. He ran it through the hem of his shirt once and positioned himself.

"Do promise not to die," he said flatly.

"Of all the times - Ath's- you pick _now -_ to be a drama queen?"

"Very well.."

Sighing, Athos bent forward to press a kiss on Aramis's curls. "Remember. You asked for it, my friend."

He took a deep breath, and slid the blade in again.

/

 _Half an hour later._

 _There are eight figures in the dark corridor: six of them dead, like fish in a pond, and two still breathing, chests moving together, up and down._

 _Aramis, on his front, is half-pulled to Athos's lap, lying in an awkward sprawl. One of Athos's hands is draped on top of his head, and the other is resting on the side, palm open, the dagger lost._

 _Both of their eyes are closed._

 _And there's an alarming amount of blood on the ground._

* * *

 _( **Note** : Excuse the anachronisms. I 'invented' the waltz in the early seventeenth-century, as well as drama queens and who knows what else.)_


	14. (III) Hypothermia

_Putting this here now (a bit of a rushed job) so I can at least claim to have gotten through *half* of the prompts given for a month in an *entire* year. I'm killing this "challenge", aren't I. Also, hypothermia basically passes for 'very, very cold', right? It certainly does here. Did I mention a rushed job?_

 _Please do excuse mistakes - they're bound to be plentiful._

* * *

 **(III) Hypothermia**

Athos could hear voices - _very many, very loud_ \- and the clattering, confused movement of a crowd, filling up the corridor that for so long had been claimed by an ominous quiet. He had no sense of time, no understanding of what was happening. He was cold. _So_ very cold.

A hand appeared out of nowhere to touch his cheek and he started, eyes opening with a gasp. Darkness greeted him: shadows hurling themselves at him and twisting, turning, warping into grotesque shapes; dancing and stomping as if on a carnival fairground _-_ Athos squeezed his eyes shut, bile rising swiftly to his throat. The forgotten hand shifted to his shoulder, squeezing; flinching, he tried to push away from the intrusion. It was so cold _-_ _the ground, the wall - why was it so cold?_ There were voices, a great many of them, growing louder but out of tune - then something started to shift. It took time for him to realize that a weight was being taken off from over his legs. His hands clenched on their own accord to maintain their hold ( _did they?_ ), but understanding of what was happening came to him very slow. _Aramis._ They were taking Aramis.

 _No..._

"It's alright, Athos- "

"Leave him.." he slurred, but before he could do anything about it, Aramis was dragged away and Athos felt his hands fall helplessly to his lap. _No!_ He made to lurch to the side to reclaim his friend, but fire erupted in his leg and it _rent_ through him, cutting that stupor like a blade: he cried out, his body arching off from the wall.

Hands stopped him from crashing sideways to the ground.

Someone was swearing.

Pressure was put on his thigh and Athos jerked again, breath hitching in his throat: _too_ _much_ , the pain was _too much_ ( _he felt hot and cold at the same time -_ _fire and frost and pain and-_ \- _ARAMIS!) -_ then it retreated in great, sharp waves, tossing him mercilessly into a sea of ice. He gradually became aware of his own voice, lungs straining, chest heaving as he moaned in sharp, pitiful breaths.

"I've got you," said a tight voice, "I've got you, you're alright."

Someone was holding him.

 _Aramis-_

"Porthos has him, Athos; we have you. Pass me a cloak!"

"Someone should ride to the village, find a surgeon -"

"Captain?"

 _d'Artagnan?_

 _...d'Artagnan._ Tréville.

Athos felt himself relaxing somehow.

The Gascon had appeared out of nowhere to kneel at his side, across from the captain who was supporting him, looking anxiously over. The captain barely even acknowledged him.

"Claude!" he snapped over his shoulder instead, "Bandages! Now!" Bandages came and the captain thrust some of them to d'Artagnan before gently leaving Athos's head to rest back against the wall.

"Let's stop you bleeding before we take you for a ride, shall we?" he asked softly, the sharp switch of tone only serving to make Athos feel more dizzy. Tréville began quickly unrolling a bandage and signaled d'Artagnan to do the same.

 _Aramis.. What of Aramis-_

"He'll be fine, Athos," d'Artagnan said, voice thick with worry, fumbling with the bandage before reaching carefully for Athos's arm, "Porthos and Establet are taking care of him."

" 'ey," Porthos's voice floated over from somewhere nearby, sounding distracted but tinged with the same worry that seemed to be going around,"We got 'im, Athos - you be easy, yeah?"

Athos shifted his head minutely on the wall, trying to suppress another shiver and failing miserably. _F_ _reezing -_ he was freezing _\- so cold- he couldn't take this anymore._

"...else is he bleeding?"

"Athos? Stay awake, open your eyes."

"Needle's ready, Captain."

He would _kill_ for a woolen blanket right now. Just a blanket - a cloak - _something -_ _just a bit of warmth_...

"Here, here, drink."

Athos coughed and choked as a sweet liquid slipped past his tongue, swallowing greedily when he recognized its familiar warmth.

"We'll get you out of here soon, I promise, the captain just needs to sew your wound. Then we'll get both you and Aramis back home, just stay with me.."

 _Well._

 _The captain better hurry, then,_ Athos thought wryly. He sighed, wanting to pat the Gascon's arm, to signal his acceptance of the terms and calm his friend, but had no idea whether the arm was close enough, and no strength to carry out the task regardless. So he let the thought pass him by, watching it drift like a cloud.

 _The cold, wrapped around him like a cape, was softer now._

Would his nose fall off from his face when it froze, came the absurd thought, like those nose-less antique busts?

 _His toes... they were already breaking off from his feet._

 _Fingers..._

 _They were safe, at least - some of them. They were enclasped in a firm, warm hand after all. So perhaps he'd preserve them_.

"Don't fall asleep, Athos- don't do this-"

"Move that light closer, man...!"

"d'Artagnan, give him space-"

"... _enough!_ Captain, we need to-"

 _A fading cacophony._

 _Needless as well._ They were _here_.

There was no need for worry.

In his defense, Athos would later claim that he'd neither felt d'Artagnan's desperate efforts to keep him awake, nor had he even registered that he fell.


	15. (IV) Betrayed

_Thank you, Uia and Julie, for your comments on the last chapter!_

 _Continuing with the unplanned saga, this is for 'Betrayed'. It's a longer chapter this time because Aramis's mental faculties aren't up to their usual standard, and he and Porthos were simply too much fun to write._

 _I plan to go back and forth across this timeline with further prompts to fill out the details of what's happened, so t_ _he 'holes' in this one are mostly intentional_ _. Let me know if there's anything particularly confusing, and, as ever, please excuse the mistakes - even computers aren't smart enough to catch them all!_

* * *

 **(IV) Betrayed**

The village inn of Auvers-Sur-Oise, some twenty-two miles north of Paris. Late November, a cloudy, bleak day. It's early in the afternoon. A group of King's Musketeers hang about mysteriously by the fire in the common room, some of them sat around a table, others close by; their expressions uniformly dark, their presence intimidating. Every ten minutes or so, one or two of them will break from the group and go up, then come down hurriedly; there will be some hushed activity, murmured words, exchanged glances, and more coming and going about.

Something is happening.

No one knows what. The villagers are curious.

Three rooms upstairs have been cleared of their unfortunate occupants, hastily offered exceedingly comfortable bales of hay in the stables instead. The way the Captain of the Musketeers stormed in the day before, with two of his men carried in by their comrades at his heels, and started ordering about for rooms and a surgeon and supplies, had left the innkeeper and his wife in a state of bewildered frenzy. But by now, on the second day, word has spread quietly that the condition of the wounded Musketeers are indeed grave, and the village priest, who may or may not have been summoned 'discreetly' by the innkeeper, is ominously hanging around.

The atmosphere is subdued; quiet. The villagers are watching, spying from over the rims of their mugs.

What passes in the rooms on the upper floor, however, will remain strictly between those walls.

/

Aramis was finally coming around.

Porthos, currently alone in the room with Aramis and Athos, leaned forward expectantly, his mouth pressed into a firm line, his heart thumping sharply against his ribcage. Aside from Athos's brief wakefulness when they'd first discovered him and Aramis in the tunnels, neither of his friends had woken up properly; Athos lay quiet, not a twitch of a finger, nor a hitch in his breath since losing consciousness the previous day, whereas Aramis had taken up a fever, the surgeon grimly announcing that his wound had become infected the previous night. It had been a long, long night, trying to keep Aramis cool, to keep him from shifting around and hurting himself, sitting patiently with him as he dreamed and moaned and kept murmuring 'Athos'.

 _"I'm startin' to get jealous,"_ Porthos murmured with a roll of his eyes at one point, as d'Artagnan was dozing in the chair by Athos's bed and Tréville had stepped out, _"you never once mentioned my name."_

 _The answering murmur was unintelligible._

 _"Come on, Aramis. Just wake up, yeah? Athos is.. not wakin' up, an' - d'Artagnan's takin' it real hard. Between you 'an me, I'm not.. takin' this whole thin' wonderfully, either."_

 _"Aramis, we need to know what happened in that tunnel. We need to know what went wrong; how - how this all 'appened. So just.. Come around, yeah? Come around."_

With no sign that Aramis had heard any of that, the night had passed on, the day dawning without any new promises. Porthos had managed to catch some sleep as the captain had taken his place beside Aramis early in the morning; and around noon, Porthos had had to practically order d'Artagnan to get downstairs and take a proper meal. That had been nearly an hour ago; Porthos guessed that the Gascon must have either fallen asleep right where he sat, or their comrades downstairs must have found ways to keep him diverted, taking his mind off of Aramis and Athos if only for a short while. If that were the case, Porthos would be grateful.

His attention was drawn back to the present as Aramis shifted his head on the pillow, his fingers bunching up the blanket.

"Aramis. Do you 'ear me?"

"..."

"Come on, Aramis.. Wake up."

"...what," Aramis's eyelids fluttered.

"Yeah, that's it. That's it.."

"Athos...?"

"Nah. No, it's me, Porthos."

Aramis finally blinked his eyes open, then frowned deeply in confusion. "Porthos?"

"Yeah." Relieved, Porthos couldn't help but smile. "Finally. How you doin'?"

Lying on his front with his head turned to the side, Aramis blinked rapidly, then his eyes left Porthos's face to roam around the room, taking in his surroundings.

"Where are we?" he breathed.

"At the inn in Auvers-Sur-Oise. We found you an' Athos yesterday, brought you 'ere."

"...yesterday?"

"Hm."

Aramis seemed to need time to digest that piece of news. After several moments of silence, he took a deep breath and began to drag his arms up to push himself on the bed. As quick as Porthos was, he couldn't prevent the sharp hiss and flinch that arrested the movement, Aramis's eyes falling shut in pain.

"'ey, don' move, don' move." Porthos gently took hold of Aramis's elbow and moved the arm back down onto the bed. "You're wounded, remember?"

It took several more seconds until Aramis seemed to understand that. But eventually, some of the lines on his face smoothed, and he sighed. Holding his friend's unfocused gaze, Porthos pulled the blanket back up over him.

"How're you feelin'?"

"..I'm.. hot.."

Porthos chuckled. "I'd reckon you'd be. You're sort of burnin' up with fever."

"..fever.. infection?"

Porthos gave a slow nod. He could almost see the time and effort it was taking for coherent thought to form in his friend's mind.

"Where's... Athos?"

"'e's 'ere. Look." He shuffled to the side along with the stool to give Aramis a view of their sleeping friend. Aramis's brows knit together as he stared, then suddenly, his eyes began to widen.

"'What - happened to him?" he gasped, "Is he hurt?!"

"Whoa, whoa! What do you mean 'is 'e hurt'-"

"Porthos - what - _happened_? Is he alright, is he well?"

"'Slow down- slow down, Aramis. Athos is not _well_ , but 'e will be-"

"No, you don't - understand-" Aramis's hand shot out to grab Porthos's wrist, looking up him in agitation, "He was - _fine_. He was fine, I swear to you, Porthos-"

"Alrigh'.. Alright, I got you. But you really gotta calm down now. Athos is gonna be alrigh'. An' you, too; you're both-"

"You _don't_ under _stand!_ " Wrung eyes filled with fear and - _and something Porthos could not identify -_ "You don't understand.."

"Alright. Then why don' you tell me what it is that I don' understand, huh?"

"Porthos, he - he was _fine_ , he wasn't - wounded.." Aramis looked at him in desperation, his brow furrowed as he tried to think, to gather his memories, "He wasn't.. wounded.. He can't have been..."

"Hold on," Porthos said slowly, frowning, "What are you sayin'? That you didn' _see_ Athos gettin' 'urt?"

"He - _wasn't -_ wounded!" Aramis all but rounded on Porthos, his hold on Porthos's wrist tightening and he _pulled_ himself towards Porthos on the bed, his breath hitching, "He was standing," he ground out through clenched teeth, "I fell and he.. he..." He drew back just as suddenly, his expression rapidly turning into one of horror, "Dear God, Porthos - he was _alone._ I left him alone.."

 _Alone?_

 _Wait a second._

 _Was Porthos getting this right? If Aramis hadn't seen Athos getting wounded..._

"I.. left him alone.."

"Alrigh'," Porthos said aloud, moving gently to pry open Aramis's fingers on his wrist, then covering his friend's hand with his own and guiding them back down onto the bed, "Listen to me." He shifted on the stool to block Aramis's view of Athos and ducked his head to re-capture his friend's gaze. "Let's get one thin' straight. You didn' leave 'im alone. Now you may very well argue that I can't know that - I wasn' there. But I know you didn' leave 'im alone. If your brain weren' addled by fever righ' now you'd never be sayin' stuff like that." He smiled crookedly before continuing solemnly. "Aramis, we don' leave one another alone. Musketeers don'. An' _we_ definitely don'. So, you didn' leave Athos alone. Do we agree on that?"

"I..." Aramis swallowed, struggling to hold on to the irrefutable logic Porthos had presented to him. In short course, it seemed to work, as some of the tension in his frame melted away; then his eyes left Porthos's face again and slid back towards the direction of Athos's bed. Porthos waited patiently as Aramis tried to sort out his thoughts.

"Porthos, he... _Was_ he wounded...?" he whispered, more to himself than to Porthos. Porthos, despite himself, felt his concern spike at this persistent confusion. Was it only the fever meddling with Aramis's head and he was worrying in vain? Or was there something else going on?

"Aramis, why don' you tell me what you remember, hm? Then we can-"

"How bad?"

"Eh?"

"How bad, Porthos - how badly is he hurt? Is it grievous?" He made another feeble effort to get a glimpse of Athos, "Is he dying?"

" _No._ He's not dyin' - no one's dyin'."

"I need to see him. Help me to-"

"Oi, _stop!"_

Drawing back from the bed and straightening his back on the stool, Porthos somehow seemed to grow even bigger in the room. "I know you're not feelin' well, I know you're worried an' not thinkin' straigh', but this is gettin' tedious. Athos is _goin' to be_ alrigh', Aramis. I don' care 'ow many times I 'ave to say it 'till you get it: _Athos. Is gonna be. Alrigh'_. Alright? Say it, Aramis."

"Yes.." Aramis murmured shakily, "Alright.."

"Good."

But although that seemed to have gotten through to him, Porthos still observed worriedly that his friend's fingers continued to tease the sheet, himself breathing in short, nervous pants. Taking another deep breath, he carefully let it out through his nose.

He truly hated fevers.

Turning on the stool, he reached for the pitcher and cup and wordlessly helped Aramis to some water.

"Thanks.."

"Hm. Come 'ere." Picking up the cloth he'd been using to wipe Aramis's face, Porthos ran it over his friend's brow again. "Look. Just try 'an get back to sleep, yeah? We'll be 'ere for a while yet. Everythin's under control."

But instead of reassuring him, Porthos's words piqued Aramis's interest. "Who else is here with you? How did you find us?"

"It's a long story, Aramis. Why don't I tell you later, when you're feelin' better?"

"Is there a surgeon - a physician? Did someone qualified take a look at Athos?"

"There _is_ a surgeon. 'e certainly seemed qualified, but I'm not qualified to tell if 'e's real or fakin' it, am I?"

Aramis blinked in surprise, and a moment later, a breathy chuckle flew from his lips. Porthos found himself grinning.

"Now that's better, isn' it?"

"Good to see you.. still have your humour.."

"Hey, of course I got it. It's me best asset."

Aramis took a careful breath and let it out shakily, and as his eyes closed, he almost seemed to deflate before Porthos's eyes.

"It's good to have you here," he whispered.

Porthos swallowed. "Yeah."

 _Thank God we got to you in time._

"Sleep a bit, Aramis, huh? You really need to."

"Hmm."

Porthos watched as his friend seemed to relax somewhat more, his weight sinking a bit deeper into the mattress. But just as he'd thought Aramis had fallen back to sleep, his eyes fluttered open again, his gaze anxiously darting towards Athos's bed, as if he was simply unable to let go.

"It's alright, Aramis," Porthos murmured softly, moving his hand to rest gently on Aramis's shoulder, "I'm 'ere. Tréville's 'ere, an' d'Artagnan's 'ere. We got Athos. Everythin's under control."

Aramis's hand twitched once, twice, then his body relaxed, and he let go.

* * *

"Athos..."

"Alright, it's alright-"

"- I'll find the surgeon. All this moving about- he's going to aggravate his wound."

"-stop- stop-"

"Ssh, be calm, Aramis. Be calm."

"We must - other way - Athos -"

"What is he talking about?"

"..."

"I don' know. But whatever's happened in that tunnel, Cap'n... it was bad."

 _The door opened and closed._

"-Boutin's returned. They've found this."

"But not the man it belongs?"

"No."

"Well, this means nothin'. Tells us nothin'."

"No. We need either of them... _both_ of them to wake up, and tell us what's happened."

"...How long is _that_ going to be?"

". . ."

"Hey. It won' be long. They'll be alrigh'."

"You've been saying that since we found them, Porthos."

"Yeah, well - 'cause they're _going to be_. Or do you wanna think otherwise?"

"..No. No, I can't think otherwise."

 _Silence again._

 _The sound of water dripping; fire crackling in the background, drunken footsteps on the floorboards outside._

"d'Artagnan. Why don't you go to the other room, get some rest? The night is still young. You'll switch with Porthos later."

"I won't leave him."

"Then throw a blanket by fire and lie down. I don't want to order you, but act sensibly."

. . .

 _Porthos-_

"I'll wake you if Athos' stirs."

* * *

The hours rolled on.

The second night had spent its youth and embraced its maturity. Aramis's fever had steadily risen. The re-summoned surgeon had had nothing more to offer than the medicine he'd left earlier: they needed to keep him cool, he'd said, as though they didn't know it, and perhaps, move him to another, cooler room. They couldn't put out the fire in the current one, for Athos still lay deathly pale in the bed he'd been placed near the hearth, no amount of blankets or hearty fire having yet accomplished to warm him. Then perhaps, the surgeon mused, they ought to move _Athos_ to another room - transferring Aramis would, in all likelihood, cause him nothing short of agony, anyway. Yes. Yes, he should have thought of that sooner. Move Monsieur Athos to another room, and light another fire there; put out this one here and open all the windows; that should help both gentlemen immeasurably.

Porthos now wondered if he'd sold himself short regarding his qualification to form an opinion on the surgeon's credibility. The feeling was shared: d'Artagnan snarled so maliciously at the man that he backed all the way to the door, and Tréville verbally kicked his backside out of the room.

Now here they were: the four Musketeers and their captain, crowded in a dismal two-bed inn room, locked in a world of their own.

/

Aramis wouldn't settle.

"- Ath's," he mumbled, his face contorted in pain, shirt damp with sweat, "- out - Athos.."

Porthos squeezed the wet rag in his hand so tightly it dripped all of its moisture onto the wrinkled sheets.

".. It's just not gettin' through 'is thick skull," he muttered, his anger directed not at Aramis, but at his own helplessness.

"Porthos. Take a break. I'm here, I'll sit with him."

"I'm fine."

"- what's - Porthos-"

"Sshh.. What're you gettin' so worked up about, Aramis, eh? I told you Athos'll be fine. I thought we agreed on that."

"What - what happened to - Athos?"

"..."

"I'm really not likin' confused Aramis righ' now. Really not."

Smiling, the captain reached to clap Porthos's shoulder consolingly.

"Captain.."

"Yes, Aramis. What is it?"

"Captain-"

"'ey, slow down - slow down, Aramis."

"Calm, be calm. Breathe."

"We- listen - listen to me-"

"I _am_ listening."

"We were... betrayed!"


	16. Exhaustion

_This is something I didn't intend to write for Whumptober. It began as an aimless Sunday hand-stretching - hence the comfortably well-trodden path (do excuse me; apparently whumping one's favourite over and over again is a pleasure that never diminishes)- but it turned into something that nicely covered a prompt. It's a break from the "Showdown" thread, but worry not, it will be continued. Happy 2020._

 _As usual, almost no plot._

 _(A shoutout to **gogirl212** , because I may have re-read 'This Is A Rescue' last week and it may have put me in the mood.)_

* * *

 **Exhaustion**

He managed not to collapse.

D'Artagnan reached him first, coming to a skidding halt mere inches away from him, pausing for only a heartbeat before drawing him roughly in his embrace. Only then did his knees give in, softly, as he blinked in innocent incomprehension, chin hooked over d'Artagnan's shoulder, gazing out.

Then they were on the ground, and Aramis and Porthos were there, and their hands were on him, and Athos exhaled softly and closed his eyes.

/

He was vaguely aware of being jostled, carried, hurried; a transition from outdoors to indoors and being placed on a cot. Constant mutterings around him, muffled and indistinct as if his ears were filled with cotton; it washed over him, warming, like a hot bath after a winter patrol. He might have shivered, but an arm definitely tightened around him. That's how he realized that he was sat upright, leaning his shoulder against something sturdy, something warm, something that smelled familiar, of leather and Porthos and gunpowder. _Porthos_.

He tried to drag his hand up to pat at his friend's chest in greeting, but his arm refused to compile. He didn't mind.

He jerked back in surprise when something entered into his limited line of vision, looming over his face, but Porthos steadied him.

"Sorry - it's only wine, Athos, a bit of wine."

 _Oh._

Then the cup on his lips and warm, spiced wine; his eyes closed and he was lost in the sweet sensation.

"- you hear me? _Mon cher_ -"

"'ey, you with us? Aramis is-"

 _A hand gently squeezing his._

"How is he?"

 _Tréville._

He hissed when he was woken rudely, his head sliding back on Porthos's arm as his breath stuttered, the view of the ceiling blurring as tears rushed to his eyes and Aramis was apologizing, profusely, patting his leg soothingly. There was a dip in the mattress and a hand on his cheek and his head was turned and suddenly Aramis was there, his features sharp, so in focus, so near and real, Athos frowned, not understanding how this came to happen.

"I know you need rest. But your feet have to be cleaned. Athos, are you following me?"

 _His feet -_

No, _don't_ touch his feet - _don't touch his feet-_

"I'll be quick."

Then he was gone and Porthos was moving him, and his shirt was gone and there were angry voices and he was shivering again, but Porthos stayed. Porthos never changed. _Porthos -_ His breath quickened again when a cold hand slid over his arm, and he looked over and saw a pair of dark eyes glinting with worry.

"I'll just clean these, Athos, alright?"

 _Clean what?_

He watched as d'Artagnan procured a cloth and moved closer, brow dipped in concentration as he took hold of his arm. There was a sharp sting and Athos understood: _the backs of his arms, his shoulders, elbows, knees, legs - points of contact when he'd been dragged through the ground._ His jaw tightened. _That_ , he would not forget. He stiffened in his friend's grip and Porthos's beard scratched against his forehead.

His gaze fleeted down when a hand gently squeezed his ankle.

"This will sting," Aramis cautioned. His eyes were soft but determined, though he still waited for Athos's consent; Athos blinked in a way that he hoped relayed his permission, but then let his eyes close, unable to suppress the trepidation he felt.

"'old on now," Porthos rumbled, arm tightening around him again.

But there was no holding on. _There was fire and agony and loud voices and more hands, pressing down on his legs and Porthos's arms pinning him -_ _walking on hot coals, a litter of splinters and shards of broken glass_ \- time slipped from him but agony did not.

They wouldn't let him go.

"It's over, it's done-"

He lay sprawled over Porthos, panting, helpless, spasming as he rode out the waves, barely conscious of the cloth wiping his face, the glass put to his lips and the sips of water, and his own voice straining in the background. _Enough._ _Enough-_ he wanted no more of this, he was done, he was _done_ he was leaving-

"Shh, hush now - hush. Easy, _mon frére_. We'll let you sleep in a bit, I promise, just 'old on a little more, alrigh'?"

 _Porthos-_

"I promise, Athos, I promise."

Something touched his feet again - _Aramis drying them_ \- but they were still on fire.

 _Just a little more..._

He did not notice that d'Artagnan had stopped his own administrations. They could see he couldn't handle any more: he was pushed beyond limits, he wouldn't endure.

 _Aramis - please stop-_

 _...Porthos is speaking. He's reminiscing of that time when they'd chased a slippery robber through a glazier's workshop. It makes Athos abruptly want to laugh because he'd forgotten about that; that absolute disaster of a chase - a jewel thief, working several jewelers' shops before getting caught. It had been a single young lad, no more, but he'd had an impressive sprint -_ his fingers dug into someone's flesh as he squirmed at the relentless pain, but hands on his shins did not let him pull his foot away - _"I swear it took three days to clean the glass from me hair. I'd wager I still got the scars on me scalp."_

 _"Well, there's no way we'll ever know that," Aramis put pleasantly, "unless you decide to shave your head."_

 _"Nah, don' even suggest that."_

 _"What did you do - charge into a window?"_

 _"Hm. An unfitted one, standin' on the ground."_

 _"You crashed into a wall through an unfitted window glass? Porthos!"_

 _"What? I'd slipped. Athos 'adn' laughed, 'ad you?"_

He had no strength to reply. He couldn't remember- a hand, softer and unsure, gently caressed his brow.

 _"That's because Athos doesn't laugh," d'Artagnan murmured with sorrow._

Athos flinched again, moaning, and was shushed again.

"You close to finishin' that?"

"I need to be thorough-"

Athos's vision abruptly greyed out as something long and sharp was pulled out of his heel, a wave of nausea slamming into him with terrible speed - he slumped over with a whimper, saved only by Porthos's reflexes. _He was panting again, panting as if he'd run for miles, shaking and sweating; he felt sobs building at the back of his throat, unable to take this anymore - be done with it, he kept pleading, be done with it, please, enough-_

The cloth was wiping his face again, wiping tears and sweat, and a soft voice was murmuring comforting nonsense: _it's alrigh', it's done; 'e's just wrappin' 'em now-_

 _It didn't matter. Athos_ was done.

He simply let his head rest on Porthos's chest, closed his eyes and let the darkness to take him away.

/

"Athos."

 _No- no-_

"I'm sorry - I'm really sorry, but you need to stay awake a little longer. Hey. I'm sorry, brother, really - but just until you eat something, alright?"

 _"..let me...let me.."_ Athos wasn't sure if he could be heard, but it hardly mattered as he choked on his next words - _please let me sleep, just let me be-_

"Good God - Athos-" d'Artagnan's voice faltered "- Aramis, surely we don't have to-"

 _A muttered curse and voices arguing and sleep pulling him down-_

"Hey."

 _Let me be. I beg of you..._

"I know you're awake. Barely," Porthos chuckled quietly, "but awake."

 _Awake - Porthos, how long? How long - how long had he been gone, how long had he endured, how long since they'd arrived here? How long 'till they'd let him rest?_

"Easy, brother. You're gonna be alrigh'. I made you a promise, didn' I? I promised we'd let you sleep. But I know you can 'old on for a few more minutes. D'Artagnan's got somethin' warm for you now. Can you open your eyes? Come on, Athos, there you go. Eat a little, and Aramis'll let you rest, eh?"

 _He was vaguely aware he was being spoken to like a child, but-_

"It's for your own good, _mon cher ami_."

 _Athos knew that._

He sensed the tension in the air, though he couldn't catch it, let alone grapple with it; instead he tried to reach for Aramis, not knowing if he'd managed to relay his intent. Aramis immediately covered his hand with his own, clutching it like a lifeline, and Athos's mouth twitched.

"You are more awake than I thought."

With relief in his voice, d'Artagnan slid a tray over the blanket on his legs, topped with soup and bread, and looked at him expectantly.

"Try a spoon, Athos. The sooner you begin, the sooner you can rest."

 _True._

He could feel his friends' collective anticipation as, with supreme effort, he dragged his hand forward, watching his clumsy fingers stumble over as if drunk, brow furrowing as he forced himself to concentrate. _Grip the spoon - hold it firm_ \- he couldn't. D'Artangnan's hand gently wrapped itself around his and steadied it without a word, and Athos allowed him to guide his hand to his mouth. _One._

It went down easily enough. _Two._

 _Three swallows._ It was d'Artagnan doing all the work, there was no use pretending.

Between the third and the fourth, whatever little strength Athos had ebbed way, and d'Artagnan gently bore the weight of his lifeless hand.

/

 _"I don't want to wake him again, Aramis. We've pushed him too far."_

 _"I still have to clean his back and arms."_

 _"Not now. He can't take anymore righ' now; we gotta let him rest."_

 _"I can work while he sleeps. There are too many open wounds, Porthos; there is risk of infection-"_

 _"Yeah, but that risk's always there. 'alf an hour won' make a difference, 'Mis. We'll let 'im rest, recover 'is strength."_

 _"We should lay him down. Here, let me-"_

 _"No, I'm good."_

Aramis sighed deeply as his shoulders dropped, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He watched with burning eyes as d'Artagnan helped arrange Athos more comfortably against Porthos's chest, his two best friends gentler than he'd ever seen them as they cared for their wounded fourth.

When they settled, the tableau Aramis saw wasn't a heart-warming one. It made his fingers clench, caused his vision to blur, his mouth to sour - he sharply turned and marched to the table against the wall, dipping his hands into the basin and beginning to scrub furiously. The man who'd done this to Athos had not gotten away, but he, Aramis, had to keep causing pain just the same - if only for a short while. He wanted it done. He wanted this part to be over, quickly and without delay - because yes, there was risk of infection, but also because the longer they delayed, the longer he had to sit with what he'd always had to do: cause more pain before he could soothe. He needed to do his part - needed to fix Athos, to clean those wounds - _the sooner you begin, the sooner it is done_ - _why wouldn't they think the same applied to the care of Athos's wounds too?_

Aramis slowed, and stopped.

Taking his hands out of the water, he stared at them for a moment, noting how they trembled.

He was being unreasonable. He was... His nerves were flayed. He closed his eyes and pressed two fingers on them, willing them to stop burning. They were exhausted. They were _all_ exhausted - _of course_ Athos needed the rest. Half an hour would make little difference; if infection was to set in, it would already have set in. A little rest, and Athos would recover some strength to endure the rest of what Aramis had to do more easily.

The same went for all of them.

Drying his hands on a towel, he walked over to his friends, sunk into his chair and drew it closer to the bed. His hand moved out of his own accord to rest on Athos's ankle, trying to suppress the anger that threatened to rise again. He had to remind himself that the man responsible would hang.

Porthos's hand landing on his shoulder doused the flame like a bucket of water. Aramis hung his head, exhaling deeply, feeling drained.

 _Yes.. they could all do with a little rest._

They settled, and no one moved for a long time.


	17. Restraints

"Restrain him!"

"Why don't you try?"

Try they do. He skewers the first one straight through the heart, before the man's even had the chance to raise his sword; spins on his heel and blocks a descending blade with a cry, reaching with his dagger in his left hand to parry a third one's thrust. The crowd is looming -for crowd is what it is, the mob closing in on him- but they won't take him alive: he disengages so abruptly that, surprised, his two opponents fall into each other's space; there's a sneer, a war cry and a flurry of movement, and they're perforated, the rush of rage driving him blind. It's a fight for his life - it's a fight for his death. _He won't let them take him alive._

He barely even notices the cuts from swords that get under his guard, bite into his flesh, spill his blood: he is not a man anymore but movement, desperation, sweat and blood, bound by the sheer power of instinct and the will the survive. His feet are so light they barely touch the ground; his muscles pull the weight of slashing through bodies with resignation and pride. _He will not be taken alive._ He will die a Musketeer, on his feet, sword in hand, head high until the very end.

They keep coming.

He's such a whirl of motion that no more than two can approach him at a time, for fear of getting stabbed or cut: there's a growing body count around him, a macabre scene taking shape before their very eyes - but for how long can he keep this up? There are more men intent on taking him than he has time or stamina to dispatch them: what they don't know is that he will throw himself onto the blade of that one last thrust, rather than allow them to take him, rather than submitting, rather than being _restrained_ , in defeat. _They don't know who the Musketeers are._

But _impact_ and _the weight of a massive bulk hitting him from behind_ shoves him out of that eloquent grace ( _who - how_ -) he stumbles in shock with a whoosh of breath spewing from his lungs, and he's on the ground, with the weight of someone on his legs and another's on his back and a hand presses his head onto the cobblestones with cruel delight. But it only becomes real when agony explodes in his arm - he feels the bone _crack!_ and his sword - _his sword - his sword_ \- is suddenly gone.

 _NO!_

He tries to kick, push up, roll over, - _get free!_ \- but he can't move; he _can't_ move, there's too much weight, his arm is wholly on fire - a knee presses down on his back as if to squeeze the last drop of breath from his lungs, and his left arm suddenly twisted behind his back, so rough as if to snatch it out of joint. He cries out, but it's muffled: there's an incredible roar in his ears, like the wailing of a child - _no no no no no - he has to - he has to -_

"Enough - we need him alive!"

 _NO!_

Then somehow he's standing upright, and he tries to kick out but the hated hands yank him back and prevent him from falling face-first onto the ground. His ankles are bound. Phantoms hands pull his arms behind him to bind them, but the pressure on his broken arm wrenches a bright scream from his mouth, and his heart vanishes from his chest for a moment as the world greys out.

 _...They can't take him alive._

There is only one thought: _T_ _hey can't take him alive._

He's shoved to the ground, on his knees with a thump and falls helplessly to his side. Men may be laughing, but his own heart is too loud. _He has to free himself. He has to get out, he can't be taken alive_ \- _but the ropes are_ too _tight_ -

Pistols fire.

 _Pistols fire and feet are pattering - there's a commotion - pistols fire - pistols -_

"D'ARTAGNAN!"

Then - _somehow -_ somehow Athos is at his side, on his knees, reaching out and turning him over, pulling his dagger in a flash and cutting the rope binding his wrists. He gasps as his arm falls loose and, spent, his head lolls, pressing his face once more into the ground.

"Are you alright?"

Athos's steadying hand is on his shoulder, but d'Artagnan can't nod or reply: every cell in his body has suddenly taken to quivering, resounding, like collectively responding to a passionate call to arms; he rolls to his side and presses his face desperately into Athos's leather-clad arm, pain having little to do with the tears that rush to his eyes.

 _He is not taken._

 _He is alive._

 _He is free._

He grins tremulously into the crook of Athos's arm.

 _Musketeers don't die easily._

* * *

 _I've tried to link a few of the remaining prompts with these bizarre times that we're living in, but each time I attempted it, it felt very poor in taste and I immediately wanted to stop. At times, fanfiction is a fertile ground for exploration, even catharsis, but I think it's a time to sow seeds of enjoyment, rather than more angst... And hope and love: The Musketeers have much to offer in that regard._


	18. Stranded-Harsh Weather

_My thanks, **Uia,** for your comments - I hope you are safe as well. I am unfortunately horrible at writing upon request but I will keep your suggestion in mind for a lighter mood._

 _For now, our friends_ _are once again_ _in dire straits._

* * *

 **Stranded / Harsh Weather**

 _Where is he?_

Night was falling. Beyond the small, dirty windowpane, Aramis watched the grim outline of the aspen trees shivering wildly in the wind. The leaves hissed without cease, like a malignant whisper conjuring a dark curse from the night; the branches creaked, adding their own chant towards the sky. Somewhere in the distance, the shutters of a derelict barn were banging.

Aramis bit the inside of his cheek.

The path ahead was draped in shadows, its deserted state a constant cause of concern for the marksman. He stared even more intently through the glass, willing d'Artagnan to appear, to come out from the woods, to _materialize._ _It had been too long._

A hitching breath caused him to turn away from the window; a quick glance downwards had him hurrying to Athos's side. The swordsman was laid in a corner upon Porthos's cloak, his own and Aramis's pulled over him for warmth. It seemed a both unnecessary and inadequate measure: Athos was in the grip of a fever, his face flushed, his eyes resolutely closed.

" _D'Artagnan.._ "

Aramis pursed his lips in worry as he crouched down.

The moan was but a breathy whisper, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of Athos's brow he restlessly turned to the side. Aramis picked up the corner of the cloak and wiped away the moisture, taking in the state of his friend. It was not a heartening sight.

He reached down to press a hand on Athos's shoulder, offering what support he could.

"He'll be back."

But the reassurance was as much for himself.

The door was thrown open and Porthos appeared among a gush of wind, carrying an armful of firewood; closing the door with his foot, he hurried to depose his load near the empty grate, next to Athos's head. He set to building a fire, reaching into the hearth to shovel out the dirt and dust.

"How is he?" he asked gruffly, his voice muffled as he worked.

"Not well. No sign of d'Artagnan?"

"Nothin'."

Above them, the wind howled over the remaining few roof tiles, blowing through the clogged chimney to thrust up soot, making Porthos cough.

Athos's fingers were twitching.

"... _d'Artagnan_.."

"Athos.. Settle, _mon ami_."

"I'm goin' to get water." Rising to his feet, Porthos dusted his hands.

"In this storm?" Aramis frowned. "You shouldn't head out. We can make do with what we have."

"For drinkin' maybe. It won' be enough for Athos; we need to look after 'im - keep that wound clean. I'll be back." Picking up the cobweb-covered basin and pitcher he'd found, he left before Aramis could utter another word.

The marksman watched him go, feeling the manacles around his chest tightening even more as the door closed. As much as he'd have preferred for Porthos to not head into the storm, there was no telling when d'Artagnan would return ( _if_ d'Artagnan could return); preparations were needed if they were to spend the night in this small, deserted hut. Closing his eyes for a moment, Aramis forcefully pushed back against the growing anxiety gnawing at his insides; deliberately, he thought of a prayer of gratitude, for having found shelter before the storm broke. Opening his eyes, he returned to Athos's side. He felt the swordsman's skin once more, and placed a soaked rag back over the heated brow.

 _Be strong, Athos._

 _D'Artagnan will come - he is the most resourceful person you and I have ever known._

He felt the burden in his own heart lightening with that thought. If anyone could make it through the storm and bring help in time, it was d'Artagnan.

 _Hang on now. He will come._

The hour before dawn found a trio of silent men, one abed and two with their heads hanging low; Porthos's head shot up as a distant, muffled shout was heard, and he scrambled to his feet, lurching towards the door. As soon as it was yanked open, d'Artagnan - d'Artagnan shrouded in a large cape and wide-brimmed hat, drenched to the bone and a fire in his eyes - strode in like a man who _owned_ the storm.

Porthos's eyes were _thunder_.

" _Where_ have you _been_?" He pulled the Gascon into a crushing embrace before his furious growl had even died out. D'Artagnan thumped him on the back.

"I'm here now. Athos?"

"He's yet alive." Aramis climbed to his feet more slowly, his limbs having numbed, his face pale and gaunt. d'Artagnan nodded.

"I've brought a cart. The horses are saddled - let's get out of here."

Then without wasting more time, he purposefully strode to Athos's side.

In the light of the dying fire, Athos was lying deathly still, only the short, shallow breaths from his parted lips assuring d'Artagnan that he yet lived. Looking down at his friend, the Gascon felt his resolve crumble momentarily before summoning back his mask of calm; lowering himself down on his knees, he found Athos's hand under the cloak and gave it a squeeze. To his relief, Athos's eyes blinked open at the contact. D'Artagnan pushed the swordsman's hair back from his forehead and left his hand there. Athos was watching him through heavily lidded eyes.

"How are you?"

Cracked lips slowly moved, but when he could not make sound, Athos reached feebly to touch d'Artagnan's wrist, the look in his eyes speaking reassurance.

"Good." D'Artagnan bent low and pressed a kiss on the burning forehead. "Then we're going home."

 _God help him if anyone stood in his way._

He was taking Athos home.

* * *

 _ **Notes:**_

 _As rare as I direct my attention to d'Artagnan, each time, I rediscover how much I enjoy writing him. I may be eternally enamoured to Athos but I've grown to very much admire our Gascon, that's for sure._

 _I hope you are all staying safe and sane. Things have begun to tentatively 'normalize' here, though it's only going to get more difficult to keep people indoors as the weather warms. I find I'm turning more and more to the 'guilty pleasure' side of fanfiction these days -it's like a comfort blanket, whumping Athos- although I feel that my characterizations have gone a bit out of shape as I give in. My thanks for putting up with me, and I'd love to hear your thoughts, as always._

 _Until next time,_


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